


Some Days Are Like That

by koozbane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: fix-it fic..... eventually., hey ya'll this will have MAJOR avengers: infinity war spoilers, not everyone appears at once. it's a lot of characters., read at your own risk thank you, some are mentioned and/or dead and some we will see again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-28 22:30:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14459163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koozbane/pseuds/koozbane
Summary: It's all he can think about now. Tony's breath comes out sharp and quick, labored as if something has been draped over his chest and shoulders. He thinks he might be dying, too, nailed down in the ashes of a boy he couldn't save. Pete deserved better."You need to get up." The voice is cold and sharp. "We cannot stay here. You will get up.""Wait." Tony hears himself shudder out a harsh breath, one hand still cradling a nonexistent body while the other moves to the wound in his abdomen. "I cant. We need to -""You need to not be a disappointment to your species." A hand lands on the back of his shirt, dragging him off of the ground and to his feet with ease. "I will not die here with you, I will leave you. We need to go."





	1. Sombre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing about this feels right. They've lost fights before, lost people before, ruined friendships before, had to piece things back together before. It's a part of all of them, almost a staple of being in the Avengers - but it's never been like this. Steve wants to break down and sob and scream about how not fair it all is, but finds his chest heavy and his eyes dry despite himself.
> 
> Anchored to the ground, Steve drops his head and breathes and loses track of himself for a few moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a long haul fic, so if you're just tuning in be prepared for be here for... a while.   
> i don't have a beta or anything!! so please excuse any typos or etc. ideally i'll be able to go back, reread, and fix things as i go! but if you notice anything feel free to tell me. and enjoy this hell ride (:

_**Wakanda  
** 2018_

Everything stops.

Steve wonders, briefly, if maybe someone has activated the Time Stone and preserved them in this moment. It would be the icing on the metaphorical cake, at this point. Forcing them all to sit and gaze at the dust settling on the grass and suffer and _mourn_ endlessly until Thanos is done with them and ready to let them go. The silence suffocates him and seems to confirm his suspicions. Anxiety starts to claw its way up his throat, leaving him scared to even attempt moving from where his knees have settled in the remains of one of his best friends.

The spell is broken when someone wails to his right, a heart wrenching sound that echoes through the trees and tears through his chest. Steve curls his fingers in the dirt where his friend _should_ be but just sort of _isn't_ and tries to breathe, tries to ignore the wail as it hiccups off and starts up again. He digs his hands into the dust and dirt and closes his eyes, trying to force himself to focus through the fog of shock and horror as he runs dust (ash? he isn't sure which) through his fingers. He questions why Bucky is gone and he's still here, tries to decide whether to chalk it up to luck or fate.

Nothing about this feels right. They've lost fights before, lost people before, ruined friendships before, had to piece things back together before. It's a part of all of them, almost a staple of being in the Avengers - but it's never been like this. Steve wants to break down and sob and scream about how not fair it all is, but finds his chest heavy and his eyes dry despite himself.

Anchored to the ground, Steve drops his head and breathes and loses track of himself for a few moments.

Moments turn into minutes, twisting into what feels like hours where the dirt stains the knees of his suit and his fingers start to go numb from being curled so tight. The effort to hold on to the last of Bucky Barnes chokes him, renders him incapable of thinking past _he was just here_ and _I just got him back_. The universe, not for the first time in his life, seems to be having a good laugh at his expense.

"That's half." Someone says behind him, voice dull. He recognizes it, after a moment, as Bruce. "Half the population of - of the universe."

"Where did they all _go?_ " The second voice is Rhodey, tone tight with worry.

Natasha cuts in next, hard and blunt. A harsh dose of a reality that no one needs reminded of, but he's relieved she's not gone. "They're dead."

Tuning them out, Steve drops his handful of nothing back to the ground and rubs at his nose. He braces his hands on the ground next, pushes until he's on his feet and dusting his hands off and looking around. There's no telling who all is left, so far. There were so many of them - in Wakanda, around the states, off the planet. There's no way of judging how bad the damage is when they're all so spread thin and unable to communicate.

In front of him are Natasha and Rhodey, holding a tense conversation that he only catches bits and pieces of. There are whispers of names; Tony, Clint, Scott, Parker. Just behind them, still encased in the Hulkbuster is Bruce. He's silent, probably trying to communicate with FRIDAY to assess the damage. He's one of the few she might care to talk to, anyway. Off to the side is a the body of Vision, limp and dark and unresponsive. Steve wants to kneel by him and shake him except -

"Where's Sam?"

When the words come out of his mouth his companions freeze, looking to him. He can see the wheels turning behind their eyes, processing the question but not answering. He tries again, because he has to. He needs to.

"Where is Sam?" This time when he receives no response, the blond reaches his hand to the comm in his left ear. "Sam." His voice cracks, his skull and ribs ache. Nothing. " _Sam._ "

Across from him, Natasha pushes her hair behind her ears and apologizes with nothing more than a look. The wailing in the distance goes quiet.

It's Thor who breaks the silence this time, looking and sounding tired and ragged. "We need to get everyone together." A pause. "We must assemble."

"There's nothing to assemble." Rhodey shoots back. "We've lost - Thanos is _gone._ Most of the Avengers are _gone._ "

"We are not. Thanos is _alive._ We will find him." The god seems pretty determined, stomping his foot like a large child.

"You forgot the barely. We're barely alive."

Nat crosses her arms, looking between them with hard reluctance. "He has a point. We aren't exactly on the winning team, here."

"Not _yet._ " Thor insists.

"He's right." Steve hears himself say as he bends down to retrieve his shield. "This isn't over."

Bruce sounds mildly horrified when he speaks up. "It's not going to be over until we die, is it? We're going to do this again, aren't we?"

Quiet falls around them again, an uncomfortable cushion between their words. They all seem to be thinking it over, judging whether or not this is worth it when they don't even know who or what is left on their planet or in the universe. The Hulkbuster pulls a hand down his face, filling the air with the sound of scraping metal. The accidental action would be funny, under any other circumstances. Hell, seeing the man in front of the _Hulk_ in the Hulkbuster should be laughable.

"We don't even know where everyone is." Rhodey finally says, looking over at Steve.

"Then we do a head count. We find everyone who -" Natasha pauses, looks away. "Everyone we can. We regroup."

Thor nods then, seeming to approve of their group decision as he starts back toward the city. Rhodey gathers up Vision's lifeless form and is gone moments later, likely to beat all of them there. Bruce and Natasha take their time, discussing something Steve doesn't have the brain capacity to keep his mind on. It doesn't seem like a proper beginning or ending to the story, they've never been caught in this weird in-between before where no one is sure what to do.

Up ahead, a small figure blocks their path. After a second he can recognize it as the raccoon that jumped into their scuffle with the Norse god. The creature gestures erratically, voice loud and abrasive even from a distance. Thor stops to communicate with it, nodding every few moments. As Steve approaches he starts to make out bits of their conversation.

"-fighting the same fight. They could be out there." The raccoon ruffles his shoulders, waves a gun around without much care. "We should be out there."

Thor nods, rubbing at his right eye. "And we will be, Rabbit."

"We _better._ That dried up grape is gonna be a puree when we're done." He spits, giving Steve an ugly look the closer he gets. When he looks back at the larger man he seems to settle a bit. "I got something that can help."

*

 _ **Titan**_  
_2018_

 

_"I don't want to go."_

The words are still ringing in his ears. Peter's voice wet with tears and full of nothing but fear and sorrow and apologies that Tony didn't even _fucking_ want.

_"I'm sorry. Mr. Stark -"_

Now that he's covered in the ashes of the younger boy, his eyes are burning and his mouth is dry. Any words he might have had are gone with the teenager, as if they never existed at all. Just like Peter. As if none of it mattered, he didn't matter, and this was for nothing.

The worst part, Tony thinks now that he can't feel the boy melting in his arms, is that no one will know. His family, any friends, his significant other - if they're around they won't know he's gone, or that he played a part in saving their lives. Or tried to, anyway. Tony's pretty sure that didn't work out, considering everyone else on this planet has disappeared and odds are his planet looks much the same.

It was all for nothing. The kid is dead for nothing and he never even got out of high school hell.

_"You could've saved us. Why didn't you do more?"_

It's all he can think about now. Tony's breath comes out sharp and quick, labored as if something has been draped over his chest and shoulders. He thinks he might be dying, too, nailed down in the ashes of a boy he couldn't save. Pete deserved better.

"You need to get up." The voice is cold and sharp. "We cannot stay here. You will get up."

"Wait." Tony hears himself shudder out a harsh breath, one hand still cradling a nonexistent body while the other moves to the wound in his abdomen. "I can't. We need to -"

"You need to not be a disappointment to your species." A hand lands on the back of his shirt, dragging him off of the ground and to his feet with ease. "I will not die here with you, I will leave you. We need to go."

Beside him now, the blue skinned Luphomoid is glaring at him. Or... He's pretty sure she's glaring at him. Her eyes don't have pupils so he can't be sure, she could be just glaring at their orange surroundings or the sky. The furrow to her brow and annoyance in her stance means she's probably glaring at him, though. He pulls from her grasp, admittedly surprised when she doesn't try to make him stay put. Tony looks around, tries not to think about the five people who were here just _minutes_ ago. Nebula goes still, like a statue, as she watches him steady himself.

Tony forces himself to go through the motions, to get himself together. He tests his armor, finds himself less than surprised when it comes out spotty and refuses to stabilize around his body. It's taken more hits than he can count, probably saved his life when the Titan was smashing them around like toys. He can't even get a response from FRIDAY. But it's normal. Going over the suit is normal. It keeps him from choking or crying - a necessary distraction.

"The Necrocraft was... rendered useless, upon landing. They would have brought their ship. They will no longer be needing it." The woman to his left eventually says, though her gaze is no longer on him. "We will find it, human."

"I have a name." He whips back automatically, looking at his dirty nails.

Squinting, Nebula rounds on him impatiently. "What?"

"Tony." One brow rises. "Stark. Your genocidal dad knows me." The nasty look she gives him has him raising both hands, palms up in defense. "Human is fine, too."

When she speaks again, the cyborg's tone is clipped. "I am not done. This is not done." She's walking, apparently convinced she knows where she's going. Tony follows because, well, there's no one else. They're all that's left. "Thanos _will_ die by my hand. His torture will be a thing of legends."

This is all well and good, but Tony is becoming increasingly less sure that his new companion is stable or trustworthy. In fact, the tone of her voice implies she _might_ kill him too. Just for fun. For giggles. She's also talking about facing off one-on-one with the alien that put him steps from death and probably just destroyed half of the universe, so. She's not really proving herself to be stable here.

"He has all of the Infinity Stones." He points out, looking back to see the wind carrying blackened dust into the sky. He dimly wonders if he should have tried to grab some of it - of them. "That's six. That's a lot, if you hadn't noticed."

"I will kill him." She says immediately, voice sharp. "Or we will die trying."

Tony raises a finger to object, frown settled onto his features. "I might have a mild concussion but I don't think I heard myself agreeing to that."

Whipping around, Nebula comes to a halt. She's grinding her teeth, expression growing more and more agitated by the moment. Pushing all of her buttons is probably not a great idea right now, but it's not like there's anything else to be doing and, well. It's true. Tony might have run out here on a suicide mission but it's not like he agreed to go another one with a practical stranger.

"What else would you have us do?" She sneers at him, head cocking to one side. "You can waste away here, if you like, the same way they did. I will have my revenge, this year or the next, the cosmos will run -"

Tony waves his hands at her the best he can without irritating his wound. "Okay, hold on Naomi Campbell, hold your horses." She stops, actually willing to let him speak. It's a genuine shock. "We don't even know where he is. Running after him blind and injured is a bad plan - an even _worse_ plan than the last one, and that one destroyed half the universe because we couldn't keep it together. We have time to... make a plan. A better plan."

"I don't even know who Naomi Campbell is." Nebula snips, turning on her heel to head forward again. But she doesn't argue any further, so he counts it as a win.

"She's a supermodel, attitude problem, assaulted her assistant with a phone." The other doesn't respond, Tony gives up on this line of conversation. "That wasn't the important part. We need to be prepared."

They're reaching the top of a knoll now, light wind sweeping around them and bringing the smell of rot and decay. As they reach the top light reflects harshly into their eyes. When Tony puts a hand over his brow he can see it's reflecting off of something bright orange and light blue, standing out against the landscape like a sore thumb. If the Guardians had been trying to hide their presence they had done a shit job. But, maybe they hadn't bothered. Thanos was going to be prepared for them either way, probably.

Nebula stops at the top, gesturing down to their newfound ride. She nods once, to herself more than him, eying him over her shoulder as she begins down the steep hill.

"Fine." She concedes finally, turning her gaze to him with something like reluctant respect. "We prepare. And _then_ the cosmos run thick with his blood. The universe will scream and quake -"

Tony is pretty sure this is going to be the longest ride through space he ever takes in his life.


	2. Restorative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes him an hour to uncover the plain cardboard box with 'BIRD BOY' scrawled on the top in red marker. Inside is his bow, a set of arrows distinguishable only by the different colors marking them, and two suits. One he's worn many times and one he never quite got to, a gift from Tony the first time he retired. He can remember when he gave it to him, insisting that if he ever came out of retirement he would need something to spice it up, things are getting stale.
> 
> And underneath all of that, a simple grey flip phone with only a few contacts in it and a charger wrapped around it. Plugging it in to the nearest outlet, he scrolls down to the third one and clicks the little green button to dial the number with shaking fingers.
> 
> It rings once and Clint takes a long, slow breath. Twice, and he begins to wonder if these phones even work anymore. Thrice, and he thinks maybe she's dead too. A fourth time and he's ready to hang up, try someone different, but then there's a distinct 'click!' and the world seems to halt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are two (2) nods to the comics in this chapter, one with a line from loki and one relating to (one of) the origins of ronin, enjoy ya'll. 3131 words of... something leading to something.

  _ **Exitar  
** 2018 _

There are a lot of things Brunnhilde was equipped to deal with, after her time being a Valyrkie and fighting Hela and traveling with two equally irritating brothers. Murder? Check. Drinking? Check. Betrayal? Check. Death? Check. Selling people to a Grandmaster on Sakaar? Check.

Suddenly being responsible for some ragtag team and the only remaining Asgardians in the entire universe after they've lost their homes and their king, their _gods_ for what could very well be the last time? Well. That was something new. She had managed to shove some number of them into a pod and navigate them all to Exitar, but she hadn't really thought beyond that. The space port isn't necessarily dangerous, but with how low their numbers are the setup is not ideal. She tries not to think about how few of them are left, their numbers cut is half after meeting the Mad Titan. Part of her kind of regrets going down this road, instead of staying nice and cushy on Sakaar with an endless pile of free booze and no knowledge of this war.

Now she has to hunker down in the Boot of Jemiah and _pay_ for her alcohol like a _real_ and _contributing_ member of the universe and worry about the last slices of a civilization. The whole adventure has been vastly overrated. She flags down a man walking with a tray of drinks and slides one from him, replacing it with a few of notes before sending him on his way.

She drinks the drink in seconds, and orders another. And another. Then a pitcher of something thick like a paste and a dark green color. It smells fine enough, but it takes her a little longer to down this one. She orders another once that's gone and ditches her glass altogether, raising the pitcher unceremoniously to her lips and drinking it that way. It's more efficient. Once that one is gone as well, she starts eying a wall by the bar with brightly colored bottles and considering her next pick.

"My, my. Mourning your fallen comrades and we aren't even in the ground yet." A sigh. "How sweet, to be missed."

Expecting Korg, or maybe Miek coming to ask her what to do next, Brunnhilde snaps her head to the side. Her words falter when she's greeted by a tall, dark haired, green eyed son of a _bitch_ with a huge mouth. The part that really catches her concern, though, is that he's alone.

"That's not _quite_ the way I expected to be received." Loki admits, sitting across from her with one smooth gesture. "I went to some trouble finding you. I would have at least expected some tears, maybe cheers."

"We expected you to be dead. Or hiding." Brunnhilde sniffs at him, taking another long drink. "I saw who that was - what that was. I've heard of what he brings." Swishing her drink in her glass, the drops her chin onto her fist and watches him. "If we're being honest, I had my money on dead. I'll owe Korg sixty pieces, now. You're putting me in the hole."

Giving her a dry look, the God of Mischief hums. "The first thing a sorcerer of quality learns is to make themselves as difficult to kill as possible. A long life is worth a tight throat." Knowing she won't get the joke, he continues. "You think too little of me."

"We were ambushed." Brunnhilde lifts one brow at him. "Defeat was written into our fates before we had a chance."

"Fate does not rule over gods. Whatever happens we do for and to ourselves."

Brunnhilde watches as Loki turns, catches a stranger by the elbow and gives them a saccharine smile. The yellowed skin and pitch black hair betray him as an Aakon. Making use of the all-tongue he speaks to them, holding their gaze and gesturing toward the bar slowly. The stranger blinks at him and then shrugs, nods, shakes his shoulders as he turns around and heads back toward the bar. He returns moments later with something clear in color that smells faintly like chlorine, leaving it on the table by the other man's elbow.

"When I concealed your presence I hadn't imagined you would pick such a _lovely_ vacation destination." The god sips his drink, looking tired. It's an odd look on him. "I've heard decent things about the... mining operations here."

Scoffing at him, the Valkyrie taps her nails on the tabletop. "Where are the others?"

This is where Loki really hesitates. He looks away from her, to the bar off on the side as he considers and reconsiders his words. He doesn't look upset so much as uncomfortable, unsure. Watching him falter has worry underneath her tongue, sharp like blood. When he doesn't answer fast enough she clears her throat, knocks a knuckle on the table to secure his attention. He shoots her an annoyed look.

"Heimdall has taken his place in the halls of Valhalla, as have the Asgardians who remained on the ship after your leave."

More out of habit than anything, Brunnhilde takes a long drink from her pitcher. "They will be remembered well." The words feel foreign in her mouth now, after so many decades of pretending they weren't hers to say.

"My brother and the Big One are alive." The god pauses, something flashing across his expression too quickly for her to catch. "They should be alive, though I suppose by now they may have gotten into anything."

Brunnhilde starts growing impatient with his slow pace and tone, as if he thinks she's a child who needs help comprehending these things or he just hadn't figured out where he was going. "All these options and _you_ come _here_."

"That's exactly what I was thinking." The would-be king looks more amused than he has any right to, tapping one ringed finger on his glass thoughtfully. "My options at the time were few. With Asgard and the Bifrost gone, there are few ways to get through the universe quickly and my access to them has been altogether limited, you understand. Even getting here took time."

"A long time." She snipes back, narrowing her eyes. "Thor leaves a mess everywhere he sets foot as far as I've seen, and you couldn't locate him instead?"

Looking nonplussed, Loki shrugs. "And here I thought you'd be enjoying my return."

"You aren't exactly ideal company."

"Am I not?" Loki blinks at her, very mildly, and then she watches a yellow-green light twist around his features until he's much bulkier and his hair is short and blonde and his features match his brother. "I can make arrangements to make this more comfortable for you." He shifts again into someone smaller, less familiar without green skin and a deafening roar. "Is this better?"

The look of disgust she gives him says it all. His form shifts again, back to his usual green eyes and dark hair. "You deserve -"

Her words are cut off abruptly, stuck in her throat as she watches someone over his shoulder fucking _disintegrate_ and, wow, that one is new. It happens again, to the patron right of him. And then the bartender. It moves across the bar like a plague, death suddenly gripping far too many of them and kickstarting chaos. Loki seems to catch on before she does, expression grim as he watches the damage start. He doesn't even look surprised, really, but maybe a little regretful. Horror drops like a weight in the Valkyrie's stomach, pinning her in place with a disgusting sense of fascination as someone screams and she watches ashes - dust? - move in the air around them like it's part of some spell.

When it's over - when she _hopes_ it's over - Loki takes another drink of his drink and waits for her to meet his gaze. "It will be well." He says, and there's something in his smile she _really_ doesn't like. Like he expects to _do_ something about this. "There is work to be done."

*

_**Hibbing, Arizona  
** 2018 _

Despite popular complaints from the public, house arrest isn't actually that bad. Clint had even been _enjoying_ house arrest for a while.

It's not that he didn't miss going out, doing things, being someone. It's not that he doesn't miss the Avengers or SHIELD or the extended family that comes with both of them. But getting to relax and retire with a significant payout from SHIELD (probably assisted by Stark Industries, if he had to guess, after SHIELD’s public return under Jeffrey Mace some number of months ago and the more recent appointment of Alphonso Mackenzie as Director) at the ripe old age of 47 has been nice. Seeing his three kids and his wife every day had been nice. Not having to worry about dying during his day job had been _really_ nice. Sure, he had to sort of sign a lot of his life away until further notice so that he wouldn't have to be stuck on the Raft for the rest of his life, but. A break is a break, and Barton was willing to take it.

For a while.

The change came quickly, and without warning. Clint always sort of thought if something big were going to happen they would get some warning. The sky darkening. A phone call from Tony or Happy or Fury or Nat - but no warning signs ever came or showed themselves to him. It just sort of happened. One moment he was there with Laura and Cooper and Lila and Nathaniel, enjoying lunch and teasing their children about school and wondering how he got so lucky. And the next there was nothing but dust in their food and death in the air.

He had screamed, cried, cursed, panicked for hours until he found himself too exhausted to do anything other than gather up the ashes of his family and try to distribute them into little jars to line up on the table, watching them as if it could reverse whatever just happened. Fury's words ring in his ears, reminding him to _enjoy the time while you have it_ and _make the most of your retirement_ like the former director has been mocking him for the past couple years.

It takes a few more hours for him to collect himself enough to check the news, to recognize the size of this catastrophe and consider what it's done to the Earth and just how much it changes everything from here on.

Forcing himself to his feet, the man heads toward the stairs. His first stop is their bedroom - his, now, he notes dully. He goes under the bed, first, pulling out boxes filled with old clothes from his children and toys they were going to pass down to any potential grandchildren. He tears them open, dumping sentimental sections of their lives across the bed and the floor. When he doesn't find what he's looking for he goes for the closet next, pulling down boxes of Laura's that she'll kill him for touching, later. _Would have killed me for,_ he has to remind himself. Wedding photos and mementos from her father and mother peek at him from underneath the cardboard and then all of those bits of her life, the last of her, are scattered across the floor too.

When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, hair sticking in different directions and chest heaving with how worked up he is, Clint thinks he looks like a mad man. It doesn't deter him from his task in the least. His next destination is the attic, where he throws containers and boxes and ruins the remnants of his life in an effort to find what he wants.

It takes him an hour to uncover the plain cardboard box with _'BIRD BOY'_ scrawled on the top in red marker. Inside is his bow, a set of arrows distinguishable only by the different colors marking them, and two suits. One he's worn many times and one he never quite got to, a gift from Tony the first time he retired. He can remember when he gave it to him, insisting that if he ever came out of retirement he would need something to _spice it up, things are getting stale._

And underneath all of that, a simple grey flip phone with only a few contacts in it and a charger wrapped around it. Plugging it in to the nearest outlet, he scrolls down to the third one and clicks the little green button to dial the number with shaking fingers.

It rings once and Clint takes a long, slow breath. Twice, and he begins to wonder if these phones even work anymore. Thrice, and he thinks maybe she's dead too. A fourth time and he's ready to hang up, try someone different, but then there's a distinct ' _click!'_ and the world seems to halt.

 _"Barton?"_ The voice on the other end of the phone is not the one he's expecting, deep and tired and confused.

"Rogers?" His response is automatic, surprised. "Where's -"

 _"Sleeping."_ Steve seems to understand his worry without him even having to say anything, response coming out before he can even finish. _"Just sleeping. Nat's fine, I just - I saw the name. She wouldn't have wanted to miss the call."_ The line goes quiet. _"Laura...?"_

Clint doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to make it real. "Gone. They're all gone."

 _"I'm sorry, Clint."_ He sounds like he understands, like he's raw from it. It's a feeling that echoes in his own chest, dark and all consuming.

"Me too, Steve." He doesn't have the heart to ask. He doesn't want to know, right now, who else is gone. What else they've lost and how. He doesn't want to know about Wanda or Vision or Tony or Sam or - anyone, really. He isn't sure he can handle it. "What happened?"

Clint can hear him shifting, lowering his voice _. "How does coming out of retirement sound?"_

"Terrible." He snorts, reaching down into the box to pull out the newer suit. The gold accents catch the light, practically calling for him to put it on. "I'm not sure how you always manage to do this to me. You're in your nineties, _you_ should be retiring too."

The line erupts in a laugh, something that shouldn't be fitting in the situation but somehow is. It makes everything seem lighter, as if half of the world hasn't just ended. Clint feels a returning laugh bubble in his throat. It overtakes him with a bit of hysteria, leaving him with tears in his eyes and his chest aching while his lungs protest. He can only imagine the blond on the other end in a similar state, leaned back and laughing hard enough that he's likely disrupting the sleep of everyone else in the building.

In the background there's a commotion. Some shuffling around, a few different voices posing questions and some particularly annoyed grumbling. He can still hear Steve, wheezing a little and trying to apologize through his guffawing.

 _"Sorry, James, I'm sorry."_ A pause. _"Barton. No. I can't imagine that's the case. No. No."_ He pauses between each sentence, probably answering some line of questioning. _"We would have to ask Shuri. It's likely."_

"Cap, I hate to interrupt." He settles the black and gold outfit on the floor beside him, digging further into the box to pull out a thick black case. He can hear Laura, telling him _you need to be sure that this team is a team._ "But I'd like to get real familiar with this situation real soon."

_"We're already on it. I guess you better suit up."_

_*_

**_Outside the Circinus Galaxy  
_** _2018_

Nebula doesn't care.

She doesn't care about the trillions of people dead - more accurately, gone, because death is much more gruesome than what she witnessed - or the war she missed out on or Gamora's death or the Gaurdians being wiped out in mere moments. She doesn't care about the planets and galaxies they've blown through, or the turmoil they must be experiencing. And she certainly does not care even a little bit about the _stupid pathetic little man_ who has just been sitting and tinkering with the thing on his chest and staring silently ahead since they boarded the ship. What she does care about is not experiencing a fiery and undeserved death because of his tinkering, and the little mechanical noises and bursts of sparks back there are really throwing her off of her game.

"Are you at all capable of _stopping_ just for a mere _moment_ or is it purely within human nature to be annoying?" She shoots a nasty look back at him.

For the first time in - well, he isn't sure how long - Tony looks up at her and blinks slowly. "I'm fixing -"

"Your toy, yes," Nebula rolls her wrist in a vague gesture, jerking her head back toward the navigator. "I understand this and you are wasting time."

"Wasting time." Tony balks, straightening his back and frowning at her. "I'm sorry, did you have any better ideas for how I should spend my time, here? Because if I'm not mistaken we just got our _asses_ handed to us on a silver platter, and if you have any better ideas for what I should be doing I am all ears."

Tony is pretty sure she would be rolling her eyes at him if she could. "You are the one who wanted a plan. You make one." She gestured to the expanse of space ahead of them. "I will get us to your home planet, you will find a new, ugly toy, and we will destroy Thanos and the rest of my siblings as I should have years ago."

"Listen, I get it, you want revenge. But if I have to spend another ten minutes hearing about your _raging_ daddy issues, I'm going to personally throw myself into the vast reaches of space and put myself out of my misery."

"You are lucky your guts were not spilled on Titan earthling." She says the last word as if it is an insult. "Work on your _stupid_ plan, or I will release you into space to be devoured by the old gods themselves."

Tony shuts up. Mostly because he thinks she actually might do just that and he's sure there's a reason he's still alive, so. He's sure Strange wouldn't have given up his own life or the Time Stone for no reason. And, sure, maybe it's a little narcissistic to assume he's that important in the greater run of the universe but it makes sense and he doesn't have much else to go off of.

So he shuts up, and he plans.

 


	3. Enervating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pause, as if the program needs to actually consider this. "Would you like the last known locations of all current employees of Stark Industries and residents of the Avengers Facility aside from yourself? I can have a list displayed in the lab on floor 2B, ready for your review."
> 
> "What - no, God, no." Shaking his head, the slightly horrified man heads out of the room and looks up at the ceiling to give the nearest camera his least amused look. "Not everyone. Just the important ones." Realizing how bad that sounds, he hunches his shoulders and tries again. "Why don't we start with Tony?"
> 
> "The Boss was last tracked somewhere over New York with the Little Insect."
> 
> "Little Insect?" Happy furrows his brow in confusion. "What is that?"
> 
> "Alternative titles would be: Young Hercules, Teen Trouble, and The Kid. They were giving the Iron Spider its first test run."
> 
> Surprised, the man does a double-take. "Where are they now?"
> 
> "Their trackers are currently out of range. I believe they were last on a ship heading into space. There has been radio silence for over forty-eight hours and seventeen minutes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get start getting pretty iffy as far as staying with mcu canon, here!! we don't actually know is aerie is still around (though.. i say it's safe to assume Chandilar is still the throneworld? aerie would still be considered the homeworld??)  
> also! i would highly recommend using google as your friend to figure out what the Shi'ar ACTUALLY look like, because i feel like i did not do a great job describing them!! it's too much to get into without putting the actual story on hold here, and they aren't really the focus here so... unfortunately they got jumped over a little. they may come into play again later in SDALK so we might get the chance to familiarize ourselves with them more.
> 
> 3452 words leading to where i had to struggle for beeper codes that might not even be accurate.

**_Upstate New York  
_** _2018_

Happy has seen a lot of things in his time. He's been Tony Stark and Pepper Potts' chauffeur and bodyguard, head of security and asset manager for Stark Industries - so it's not surprising that some, for lack of a better word, _shit_ has come into his line of sight. Aliens, robots, one-armed men, flying vehicles, flying metal whales, two men with mechanical wings, dead agents, superhumans, people coming back from death and being frozen. Things that he hadn't even considered real for a very large portion of his life, things that still seem surreal even though he sees them on an almost daily basis now. All of this, all of these years as Tony's friend and following him into disaster after disaster, should have prepared him for anything.

 _It should have,_ he thinks, _but it didn't._ To be fair, he's not sure anything could have prepared him for watching so many people disappear like smoke in the air or some kind of sick magic trick. Now you see them, now you don't.

"I should have retired." He notes to no one in particular as he stares up at the Avengers Facility. The building looks foreboding in the shadow of recent events. He isn't sure what to expect, if anything. For a few extended moments he just stands there, looking at the white walls and long glass windows and the Avengers symbol tattooed on the side of the building like an advertisement. The idea of going inside without any clue as to what he's going to find is intimidating. "Home sweet home."

Forcing himself to step through the doors, Happy releases a breath he didn't even realize he was holding. Inside everything is silent, as still as a graveyard and just as uncomfortable. At first look it's empty, which. Well, it isn't all that shocking. After all, things have sort of gone to hell in a hand-basket so expecting some kind of grand welcome would have been unrealistic. He scuffs his feet on the floor and heads further into the facility, letting his feet lead him to one of the common rooms formerly inhabited by the Avengers.

"Welcome back, Mr. Hogan." The light voice coming into the room makes him jump, stumbling over his own foot and bringing a hand to his heart. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He could _swear_ the artificial voice sounds amused. "You can't do that to people -  you're likely to give someone, that someone being me, a heart attack."

"Your heart rate has increased by thirty percent and is currently lowering. In the event of a heart attack -"

"Okay! Okay." Happy drags a hand down his face, shaking his head.

When the female voice doesn't chime in again, he goes back to wandering the building and listening to his own footsteps bounce off of the walls. Each door leads to an empty room, empty beds and abandoned tables. The only room that has any sign of recent life in it is Helen Cho's, where papers are scattered across her desk and littered unceremoniously across the floor and a half-consumed cup of coffee has gone cold. He wavers in the doorway for a beat, then two before he finally decides to go through the threshold.

He collects the scattered papers, eyes skimming over them in search of some answered to his unasked questions. Most of it goes straight over his head, though. Something about implants into the body that would push out regenerative tissues in the events of emergencies, and synthetic materials that won't dissolve or degrade over time when in contact with specific acids - that's about all he can get out of it. He dumps the papers back onto her workspace and rubs at the bridge of his nose.

Finally resigning himself to what has to be done, Happy sighs heavily. "FRIDAY?"

"Is there something I can assist you with?"

"Where is everyone?"

A pause, as if the program needs to actually consider this. "Would you like the last known locations of all current employees of Stark Industries and residents of the Avengers Facility aside from yourself? I can have a list displayed in the lab on floor 2B, ready for your review."

"What - no, God, _no._ " Shaking his head, the slightly horrified man heads out of the room and looks up at the ceiling to give the nearest camera his least amused look. "Not everyone. Just the important ones." Realizing how bad that sounds, he hunches his shoulders and tries again. "Why don't we start with Tony?"

"The Boss was last tracked somewhere over New York with the Little Insect."

"Little Insect?" Happy furrows his brow in confusion. "What is that?"

"Alternative titles would be: Young Hercules, Teen Trouble, and The Kid. They were giving the Iron Spider its first test run."

Surprised, the man does a double-take. "Where are they now?"

"Their trackers are currently out of range. I believe they were last on a ship heading into space. There has been radio silence for over forty-eight hours and seventeen minutes."

Happy _really_ doesn't like the sound of that. "What about Pepper?"

"Pepper was last located in downtown New York. Her tracker went offline at the time of the Incident." And then, as if it's going to help, "Surveys of the area indicate that she will not be home in time for dinner."

It's not the news he wanted. Happy swallows past the lump in his throat, rubbing at his eyes as he considers the state of his two best friends. For years, they've been all he's had and now... It's just him. He visibly deflates, leaning into one of the walls of the hallway. Without Tony and Pepper he isn't sure where to go from here. He knows what he should do, what he would do if this were happening under slightly less bizarre circumstances, but it certainly doesn't fit the situation now. Not when the news is blaring out half finished reports of New York being attacked (again) and the population dying in the blink of an eye. No one has even tried to explain it past another out-of-this-world encounter that they are clearly not on the winning side of.

"- more significant than expected. Doctor Selvig has been reviewing video footage and attempting to assess potential causes of the Incident and catalog general losses." FRIDAY is still talking. He must have been tuning her out. Is it rude to ignore an AI? Happy is pretty sure it still is, even if he isn't all that knowledgeable about technology. "He is currently stationed on floor 4B, under lockdown."

After a few moments of consideration Happy decides it can't get much worse than it already is. "Better tell him he has incoming."

*

 **_Wakanda  
_** _2018_

"All I'm sayin'," Rocket snarls at them all from his position on the countertop and crosses his arms. His expression is tight, angry. "Is you bums are just sittin' on your _asses._ Maybe that's how you do things here on Earth but on my team we _did_ _things._ "

Steve sighs from his seat at the table, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes as he regards the raccoon. He's been going off like this for over an hour, clearly getting stir-crazy from the few days they've been rooted in Wakanda trying to form an idea of where to go from here. The Incident has left a lot of them understandably torn and on edge, handling it in their own ways, but he could really do without listening to an hour of angry sputtering from a talking tiny bandit. The whole situation feels surreal, like an out of body experience.

Rhodey hasn't moved from his spot across the room, not even taking the time to spare them a glance. His face is set in a hard frown, the lines around his eyes and forehead seeming to grow more prominent by the day. The past two years look like they're taking their toll, now, weighing him down with the sharp pain in his lower spine and the metal permanently in his bones.

Seated beside Steve, Natasha is giving her little silver flip phone a dirty look; expecting a call that clearly has not come yet. If she's not lurking and glaring at that phone she's been plastered to him or Bruce, making vague conversation and handwaving them when they try to get her to do anything more than that. Bruce, bless his heart, has gotten chewed out twice already for not letting her avoid the things happening around them. Steve is at least smart enough not to ask until she cools off a little, not wanting her to direct that look on him. That glare could melt off skin and the agent herself can be pretty damn intimidating when she sets herself to it. She _is_ \- or was - an Avenger. Super soldier or not, he values his life enough not to toe the line with her right now.

"And you're still doing it!" The little beast throws his hands up, pacing on the counter and curling his lip. His claws click on the surface, a sharp  _tick-tick-tick_ in the air. "Just staring at me like there's nothing better to be doing. That wrinkled old radish demolished everyone -"

"I'm sorry." Natasha breaks before the rest of them not looking the least bit apologetic, eyes narrowing as she looks up at him. "When did our leader morph from a sensible human being into an oversized rodent?"

"That's real big, sweetheart." Rocket sneers at her, pointing a finger accusingly. "It's not like any of you are leading this ragtag group of incompetents, don't act like you're automatically the superior species here."

"Getting a word in has been pretty impossible since we got back here." She responds dryly, settling the phone on the table and leaning on her elbows. "Have you ever heard of a road kill? If not -"

"Nat." Steve interjects quickly, reaching a hand to her upper arm. She looks at him from the corner of her eye and he can practically hear her teeth grinding as she settles back. He retracts his hand and turns his gaze to the raccoon again. "Rushing into this the way we did last time isn't going to work, we've seen that."

Rocket sniffs and looks between them, clearly thinking over his next words. Whatever argument he had is defused when Thor enters the room. It's like the man is a sponge, sucking every bit of anger out of him and turning him into a decent being. He does give them the finger one last time before dropping to sit on the edge of the counter and storming out of the room entirely. The Norse god only stops him for a moment with quiet words and directs him to the east hall, saying something about _tools_ and _communication devices_ _fit for longer distances._ It's safe to assume that he's going to gather something for Shuri and Bruce and then rejoin them in their work, as he has on-and-off the past few evenings.

"I see we are all remaining friendly." The larger blond looks more tired than Steve has ever seen him. He didn't realize the guy had limits, but that probably came along with the whole 'losing your father and brother and your entire society' sort of thing. _I get it,_ he thinks. "I have prepared us a feast."

The idea of Thor, the man currently carrying an axe around on his waist like it's nothing, potentially wearing an apron and making a dinner sounds ludicrous. Steve is beginning the wonder if maybe he's dreaming.

As if reading his mind, Rhodey cranes his head over to look at them with raised eyebrows. "What planet are we on, again?"

Thor looks disappointed, dejected, like a kid being denied a new toy or a candy bar. Steve thinks back to sitting and staring at a plate of Shawarma, watching everyone eat and feeling so exhausted he nearly fell asleep with a bite of food in his mouth. He remembers Thor looking at Bruce and the two of them nodding, he remembers the way Tony slouched back in his chair because he could hardly hold himself up, he remembers Natasha and Clint on their side together holding a conversation that cost them no words. He misses it, misses when things were just a little bit simpler. Judging by the look on Thor's face, he does too.

Steve thinks of better times, and pushes himself to his feet and aims a steady look at their other companions. He nudges the woman to his left until she does the same, looking thoroughly disgruntled. He waits patiently until Rhodey sighs and gets to his feet as well, making for the door and at least making an effort to rub the sour look from his face.

"Thank you, Thor." Steve doesn't quite smile, can't force his features into something that smooth right now, but the other man grins wide enough for both of them. "I'm sure we would _all_ appreciate that, it's been a long few days."

Grinning, the Adgardian claps a hand on his shoulder and guides them toward the door. For a few moments, everything is calm. Quiet. Peaceful. If not for their dwindling numbers, it might even feel like they hadn't a terrible no good very bad day. It's not right, it's not perfect, but it's something and Steve is willing to claw for everything - every inch, every moment - that they can get before things fall apart again.

*

 ** _Aerie_ **  
_2018_ _  
_

The Shi'ar as a people have never been the most desirable company in the universe. It's not that they are especially unlikable or unapproachable, but their militaristic ancestry, desire for nothing but the utmost loyalty, and strict systems leave something to be desired. They've been in the middle of wars for longer than anyone can remember, either negotiating (demanding) peace or having a hand in forcing one party or another to back down. So it's understandable, really, that many people regard them as a bit... _severe._ The hesitation to get caught up in a web of affairs with them is to be expected, but typically impossible to avoid.

Not that they're particularly _unwelcoming_ either, though. Even now, twenty-five years later and half fused with a Kree, Carol Danvers finds herself being allowed to drift on the edge of their society and observe the high structure and light figures. Despite any misgivings regarding the Kree half of her, they've allowed her to take up a slice of their life here in Aerie. It's more than she can say for any others - the Shi'ar aren't exactly inviting people for extended stays on their planet, even if they find themselves inhabiting plenty of others and moving outside of the Shi'ar Galaxy.

 _Although not residing here might be by choice,_ she decides after a moment of surveying her surroundings again. The half of her that knows this place - these people, this life - feels immensely guilty the minute the thought takes up a corner of her mind. They've been decent to her, allowing her to come and go as she pleases and providing her access to their superior technologies in an attempt to hone her skills and keep one eye on the Kree Empire and the Greater Magellanic Galaxy. Still... it's like there's a taste of trouble bordering the utopia, making it impossible not to feel like she's looking through stained glass.

"We had such dreams."

In front of her, standing and looking out over the city and the slowly moving water, is Lilandra. The feathered crest on her head and the silver cloak attached at her collarbone catch the light, making it hard to focus on her more humanoid features. She looks more like a bird than ever, with the sky cradling the edges of her silhouette and her chin pointed upward. The black markings around her eyes seem to emphasize the harshness of her expression, the lines drawing attention to the downturn of her eyes and brows. She looks like a painting, so still aside from the twitch of her lips that it almost isn't real.

"So many, turned to dust before our very eyes." There's a pause, and the taller avian woman faces her with a frown. "You know why I have come from Chandilar?"

Carol lifts her shoulders in a shrug. "I had assumed... Leaving the throneworld isn't really a common occurrence, but under the circumstances I was expecting at least a visit."

"Good. Your Terran brain has yet to fail you." Her tone is flat but the glint in her eyes is near amusement. "Once more, it seems you must return to Earth. If your warning was any indication." When she nods, Lilandra continues. "I must remain here, for the sake of the Empire. You have no plans in the foreseeable future, yes?" She doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I expect if you cannot handle this _situation_ I will hear of it quickly."

There's a warning behind her words, discreetly lining the pitch of her voice. It's not surprising. Carol is sure she still has eyes somewhere on Earth, watching. Waiting. It's foreboding, knowing that even behind peace treaties and quiet spaces there are plans she has no knowledge of. She should probably be a little offended, considering how quickly she relayed the message of Fury's S.O.S. to the throneholder of the Shi'ar, but. That's fine. She's not offended at all. Not even a little. Not even the _tiniest ittiest bit._

"You will take one of our starships."

Carol's protest starts automatically. "That's not necessary. You know I can travel just as quickly and with less notice by myself, it's safer to -"

"You _will_ take one of our starships." Lilandra gives her the kind of stern look a disapproving mother might, as if she's one of her personal hatchlings. "They are equipped with force fields, cloaking devices, and long distance audio and video communication systems."

Which means they can (and likely will) be keeping an eye on her as well. Carol is shocked the woman hasn't asked her to install a Stargate on Earth, so they have more instant access but... She makes a note to check the ship for anything specific before she leaves regardless. Still, she's grateful. The Shi'ar have looked after her well.

"Thank you, Lilandra."

"You assisted in restoring me to my throne, I should hope I can return the favor." That same mildly amused look crosses her face and she looks Carol up and down deftly. "Besides, your clothing is not built to withstand entering Earth's atmosphere. I would hate for you to arrive under dressed."

Running a hand through her blonde hair, Carol heaves out something between a laugh and a sigh. "You always do have my best interests in mind."

"As I should." Lilandra turns away from her, waving one hand dismissively. "You are free to go. May Sharra and K'ythri deliver you well."

Knowing better than to crack some joke about heartfelt goodbyes, Carol nods again at her back and retreats. The older woman wouldn't have understood and the effort would have been a waste, anyway. Within an hour, the woman once known as Captain Marvel is ready to leave. There's no one to bid farewell to, and doing an inspection of the ship (and ditching some unnecessary additions to the cargo) doesn't take long enough to make a dent in her trip time.

It's been a couple decades since she had to fly anything, but slipping into the pilot's seat is like coming home. It makes her think of her time in the Air Force, of the opportunity she had being allowed to be one of the first female combat pilots. It makes her think of think of fighting against a fast rising prodigy named Rhodes, and Jeannie Leavitt, of Howard Stark's death and of Nick Fury. The nostalgia comes mixed with worry, a reminder of the Incident and situation at hand.

Absently, she pulls the pager from one of her pockets. The little piece of plastic is only slightly more advanced than the ones that were actually being sold in the nineties. This one is a SHIELD prototype, though it's easier to assume the base for it came from Stark or one of the other geniuses they managed to recruit. She's really not sure how it even managed to send her a message from so far away, isn't sure if sending one back is even going to be worth it by the time she arrives. In the end, she figures it's worth a shot.

**214 - RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE.**

**324 - C U SOON.**


	4. Draining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're in the process of wrapping up when Tony, forgotten during their deal, lurches forward and attaches a hand to his abdomen. He stumbles once, twice, and crashes into the table in the center of the room. He's hunched over the surface, hissing and groaning and curling his fingers into the fabric of his clothes. Haze curses and Nebula braces a hand on her companion's shoulder, hauling him backward. He sways but doesn't fall, instead hunching forward and dropping his head.
> 
> He's sweating and his heart is pounding, Nebula notes as she holds him still. He might be getting an infection, a fever. She wonders if she misjudged how long he has left or if he's really so incapable that this little excursion has worn him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was really planning on touching base with scott lang this time but we did not get there, oops. instead you get 5309 words from those losers in space, i guess.
> 
> if i'm not mistaken these translations are correct! if you know or think this is wrong please tell me!  
> fogl = bird  
> ormr = snake

**_Exitar  
_** _2018_

"This is... underwhelming."

It's not that Loki isn't excited to see the remaining Asgardians and members of the Sakaaran Rebellion it's just... He was expecting more of them. Their strength certainly doesn't come with their numbers and it's likely that most of them will be useless anyway but it's still a bit discouraging.

They've dwindled down to ninety-eight Asgardians after Hela's slaughter and their capture by Thanos and, most recently, the Incident. Thousands of lives lost in such a short span of time. Asgard had been made to house ten times that, even if they never got anywhere near doing so. Their lifespans being as long as they are, reproducing at a faster rate would be sort of alarming and a recipe for disaster. Maybe if other species had managed to understand the threat of overpopulation and were less inclined to being crammed into such small spaces, they wouldn't be where they are now. Not that he's blaming them - though of course he sort of _is_ \- but he's pretty sure reducing their numbers so drastically while still leaving millions of humans wandering around Midgard is unfair.

Loki is fairly sure there are more of them out there, somewhere, at least. Heimdall had been discreetly shuttling people to and fro for long enough that he had to have gotten some of them safely away, maybe even somewhere on Midgard waiting for them. And that's not to mention the ones stationed around the Nine Realms to keep their eyes open and maintain order.

Watching them, taking in their expressions as they take in his not-deceased state, reminds him of Thor. He would be horrified to see their numbers dipped so low, grieving endlessly for the members of their home that they were incapable of saving. Loki has always known who was coming. They never stood a chance, they had been spread so thin. It occurs to him rather suddenly that he doesn't even know if his brother is still living. Death does not discriminate. The Infinity Stones certainly don't either. It would be ironic, after everything, if he was the one who ended up being gone.

Still... Loki likes to think he would just sort of know, if the other man were dead. He thinks he should be able to feel it, a whisper of dread in the pit of his stomach the same way there was when they watched Odin take his last breaths on Midgard. It’s the symbolism of it all that matters, something likely lost on many of them.

"Hello, it's just me, excuse me. Just a question, a little inquiry if you will." Korg is raising a hand like a child in a lesson, causing pebbles to fall from his shoulder to the floor. The sound grates on his nerves unexpectedly. "What was the plan, again?"

Loki thinks he hates the Kronan, just a little. He would kill for company like Frigga or Lorelai or even Lady Sif right now. Brunnhilde is the only totally tolerable one here, and she certainly isn't his biggest fan. Not that she should be, anyway. Miek isn't bad either, but that's probably because he doesn't talk or communicate at all outside of these high chattering and grumbling noises. And Loki likes that, thinks he can relate to the disconnect there.

"I think I heard 'let's visit the same exact place a homicidal Titan was last spotted' - which sounds terrible, by the way." Brunnhilde snorts at his right hand side, doing her best imitation of him. It's not bad. A little nasally, but. Better than most, so he'll take what he can get.

In front of him, Biff grimaces and grumbles. "Bad plan."

"What do you think?" Korg nods to his smaller, insectoid companion. The bug looks up at him thoughtfully, then sinks closer to the floor. "Miek agrees."

Of course he would. Miek is officially out of his goos graces. The Norse god gives them all an ugly look. He's really not sure how or when he get to this point, trying to argue over a plan with a bunch of former Sakaaran slaves who wouldn't know a good plan if it bit their asses. He's better than this, surely. Even the former Valkyrie isn't trying to help, allowing him to struggle with their other companions and their lack of desire to cooperate. She looks borderline amused. The other Asgardians don't look very keen on following him into the fray either and all he's asked them to do so far is journey the rest of the way to Earth.

"Have any of you even spared a thought of what is to happen next?" When no one responds, he continues with a sneer. "Of course you haven't. You're too busy sitting and _sniveling_ , burrowed into your holes of self pity, to even consider a next move. Did you think this stopped here?"

Behind Korg and Biff an Asgardian steps forward, all soft features of bright eyes. He looks significantly younger than most of them, just now growing into his features and long hands. He can't be more than a few centuries old, if that.  "You expect us to trust you." It's a statement, not a question, so Loki stays silent. "Asgard might be standing tonight, if not for you."

There's no good argument against that. Loki isn't an idiot; he knows some of the blame for the loss of their home falls on him. There's no avoiding it.

Knowing what Thanos is capable of, having even the slightest inkling of his plan, he should have been preparing for this. He should have tried. Instead of arranging dramatic works to honor his false death and celebrate his brother, he could have been keeping watch on the Nine Realms. He could have consulted his father, when things started to go awry, instead of leaving him to fade on Earth. He could have - should have, probably - been more observant and less wrapped up in some idealistic form of revenge. He could have done more, been more than just a trickster. Things could have been different, Loki knows that.

But it's too late for 'could have's and 'should have's. They have better things to be putting their attention toward, things to be preparing for.

"You would not be standing here tonight, if not for him." Brunnhilde cuts in, inspecting the dirt under her nails. "None of us would."

Loki shoots her a suspicious look. She's one of the last people he expected to come to his defense, she hasn't exactly been very helpful to his attempts up to this point. She doesn't spare him a glance, but there's a stiffness in her shoulders and something cold in her eyes. _She sympathizes with me. Pities me, perhaps._ The thought strikes him as funny, but not entirely unexpected. He had peeked into her mind, seen the last flight of the Valkyries and her decision to abandon their people all those years ago. It hadn’t much occured to him that she could see where he was coming from, having stood in his shoes once. He'll have to remember this, use it to his advantage in the future. _Noted._

The other Asgardian falters, looks between them. Probably intimidated by the nasty sneer Brunnhilde has held for what is likely an eternity. It's understandable; the mark on her arm casts her as a Valkyrie and they're not to be crossed. "You're saying you trust him?"

"She's saying," Loki intervenes before this conversation has the chance to take a worse turn that it already has. "You have very few options outside of that. The Allfather is gone. My brother is... indisposed."

He looks around at their ragtag group, takes a breath and tries to dig deep _deep_ down in an effort to pull some bit of his father or brother out of himself. He pulls at the appeasing and quietly deceptive words of Odin, the whispers of agreement and care and peace and something bigger than any of them. He yanks at the strings of moronic selflessness and unwavering loyalty Thor reflects. Everything about it feels foreign in his chest and on his tongue, playing a part to convince them his way is the best even if he doesn't know it for sure.

"Asgard was never about the place - it is about the people." It’s a line pulled directly from Odin's mouth and he thinks of when Hela said he spoke like him. "I am not the Allfather but our people have brought peace to the Nine Realms before under his fist - since the Great Beginning. Now I would ask you to do the same under mine. Avoiding this war will give us no peace, though the spears may spare you."

Silence drifts over the room. Loki lets his shoulders fall back, chin lifting as he grows more comfortable in this role. He'd never been able to best Thor physically, but this is where he stands on sure footing. This mental and verbal game is where he thrives. He allows something soothing to slide over his tongue, weaving into his words as he continues. And if he lets his the pitch and drop of his words fall into something more akin to his father's time - well, that's just a _fine_ coincidence.

"I met the ice in Jotunheim, I was raised under the sun in Asgard under the hand of Odin. I am neither Jotun not Asgardian, not truly. So call me what you will - Laufeyson, Odinson - but I have moved past my fractured delusions." He tells himself that this is okay to say, seeing as it's not a total lie. "I ask that you look past what _has_ happened and look to what _will_ happen, what _is_ happening.  I do not care to be your King, I do not care to have your love or approval. I have no endgame, here. All I desire is... restoration. Retribution."

As if in an offering of peace, the dark haired man spreads his hands in front of him, palms up.

To his right, Brunnhilde seems to be inspecting him closely. Maybe with disbelief, maybe with annoyance, like she knows he game he's playing. All of it is to be expected, they've had a pretty rocky go of it so far. After a few distended moments, she jerks her head back forward to stare at the last of their people. There's a pause, just a second, where Loki thinks they're still going to meet him with contempt and their gazes are going to be able to see through the places where he's bent the truth to pick him apart.

 _This is fitting,_ he decides after beat.

"I'm sorry," It's Korg again, squinting at him with something very close to embarrassment. "I don't think I understood any of that."

Loki is sure, now. He absolutely _does_ hate the Kronan. He's totally ruined the impact of his speech - undermined the very core of it. As someone who is very invested in the arts and the delivery of these things, he's a little offended. Or maybe incredibly offended. He lifts a hand, forefinger and thumb rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he tries to decide whether or not the situation is capable of being salvaged at this point. He should just take the ship, pilfer some supplies from the space colony and leave all of the ungratefuls on Exitar and spend the rest of his time -

"When do we leave?"

In his surprise, he lets his hand drop and turns to find that Brunnhilde has turned to him entirely, expression set with a raised brow and her hip cocked. The look on her face doesn't leave any question as to whether or not she - and that ship, and likely the members of the Sakaaran Rebellion with her - will be leaving. She's a sight, all sharp determination and a force to be reckoned with.

He is not at all surprised when no one steps forward to argue against her. The Valkyrie were something to be feared, in their time, and stories of them have traveled and been passed down since their end. Briefly, he reflects on all of the things he had heard of them when they were just children. He can recall gushing with Thor about them, listening to stories from Frigga. He'd admired them, though not going _quite_ so far as Thor in his desires to be one of them. They were too close to the sun, their beasts were not his fans, and being almost directly under the thumb of someone else never appealed to him. He could have pulled off their outfits, at least, but that's about as far as that goes.

"As soon as we can." Loki finally delivers, looking thoughtful. "I have no idea how long the trip will take, like this. Not that time is much of a concern, now..." And then, low enough that he hopes no one else can catch it, "What changed your mind, _fogl_?"

She barks a laugh and claps him on the shoulder much harder than necessary, forcing him to lurch forward. He tries not to be bothered by this. "I'm only tagging along to watch this blow up in your face, _ormr._ "

*

 ** _The Andromeda Galaxy_  
** 2018

It's impossible to tell how much time has passed.

Without any kind of clock - at least not any that read in numbers or characters familiar to him - or night or day everything blurs and blends at the edges. Time seems to drag. One hour sticks to another, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. They hardly seem to be moving. In fact, Tony is sure he's been staring at the same collection of stars and planets clustered outside of the view ports for the past, well, however long they've been moving through space. Sleeping only makes the whole thing more disorienting when he struggles to figure how long he's been out for, how many minutes he's risked his life by letting his guard down when there's no telling what's coming next.

For what it's worth, Nebula doesn't seem interested in helping him pass the time. She's content to sit in silence, navigating them through various patches of meteors and carefully slipping by other beings drifting in space.

This leaves Tony with a lot of time, and nothing to occupy it. He tries tinkering with his suit, for a while. But there's no familiar parts to go fixing it, and he's not willing to risk destabilizing the part of the suit that's holding together the wound in his abdomen. It is sort of his only hope, once again, which isn't nearly as surprising or funny as it should be. He would jokingly refer to it as a crutch, but the statement feels almost too accurate and a little uncomfortable. It makes him think of Pepper, who has compared his Iron Man life to an addiction and insists it's going to be what kills him. _She's not wrong,_ he concedes.

When he finds himself at a loss on the suit, Tony thinks. He thinks of Pepper, and his broken promise of being done with this life, wonders if she’s still where he left her. Rhodey, probably unsure and waiting and searching for him like he did years ago in Afghanistan. Happy, probably all alone and at a loss for what to do. He thinks of Nick Fury, proposing the Avengers to him and seeking him out in the barn of the Barton homestead. Which makes him think of the Bartons, too, of their picturesque life that he keeps digging his fingers into and interrupting with life altering events. Natasha, her secretive smiles and light words with dark suggestions behind them. Wanda and Vision - at least one of whom is definitely gone now, the other likely in a state of grief he can't hope to put a stop to.

He thinks of Steve, hovering over him with half a mind to dislodge his head from his body. He thinks of the shield sitting inside the Avenger's Facility in New York, of the way their friendship crashed and burned, of the unintended betrayal and unspoken lies. Of James Barnes who, well, he hardly knows but still kind of wants to punch in the face. Who can blame him, really? Even if he's not the Winter Soldier - and he _is,_ brainwashing or no it's a part of him now - he still played a part in the disruption of his life, it's hard to look past. But he thinks he will one day, in the future, when he can breathe properly again.

He thinks of Thor - who might not even know what's happening, now, who might be mourning as much as he is. And of Bruce, all tight anxious smiles probably overtaken by Big Mean and Green. Sam, who is probably pushing through this with more jokes than he can hold. He thinks of Strange and Peter and the Guardians who drifted into nothingness in front of him, all the things they deserved but never got to see.

Eventually, Tony has to force himself to stop thinking.

It's too much. His breath catches in his throat and his hands shake and he has to push the heels of his hands into his eyes to fend off the incoming migraine and push back the wetness in his gaze. He can feel his heart pounding in his fingertips and throat, hear his blood rushing through his ears. It’s like everything stops. Like the universe has frozen around him to provide him with just a few moments to absorb his grief. Tony’s lungs burn and his throat feels tight and _Christ_ could he go for a drink right about now. There's a long lapse in time where he sits like that, hunched with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his face while he tries to steady himself. He's sure he hears Nebula making some noise of unimpressed distaste, but it's hard to come up with something witty to say to her.

Once he's got himself under control enough that his hands don’t shake like he’s been submerged in ice, he occupies himself with digging through the contents of the garishly colored ship instead. The inside is the same orange as the outside, spotted with yellows and darker colors in the same range, bits of light blue highlighting things that are either important or dangerous but it's hard to tell which when everything looks at least a little dangerous.

"If you don't stop rooting through things - things that are _not yours_ , for that matter - you're likely to blow a hole in the hull." On cue, Nebula looks over her shoulder to give him an annoyed look. “You’re impossible.”

Tony makes a face where he's hunched over an assortment of wires and circular contraptions, rolling one around in his hand. It looks suspiciously like a yo-yo "That seems incredibly unlikely. Do you know what this is?"

Without looking up or moving, the man holds up the grey and yellow device in one hand. Nebula heaves a sigh. "A Vrellnexian gas grenade. If you activate it we will be incapacitated for at least sixteen hours and this ship will probably crash into a meteor and kill both of us."

"Good to know." He lifts his head to stare at the grenade, taking note of the light indentation on one side of it before he moves it aside for later use. "So... Vrellnexians?" It sounds off coming off his tongue, like it doesn't fit, and he isn't sure he's said it right. "Are they known for these?"

"No. They are known better for their stench." Nebula's tone is so monotonous that he isn't sure if she's joking or not. "They are like your Terran dogs, though admittedly more coriaceous."

Giving a nod in response, Tony redirects his attention back to the bin he's been exploring. He finds two more of them settle in the bottom of the container he's found and puts them with the first.

His companion makes a face as she watches him, but doesn't say anything. They spend some time like this, with Tony presenting her with various objects and asking what they are. With a surprising amount of patience, Nebula provides him with names and descriptions. Gravity mines, pulse wires, ice mines, shock grenades, pulse grenades, energy cores from various places, a Necroblaster, the Hadron Enforcer, constrictors, a blowtorch, the Pink Panther - Tony eventually has to start an inventory, listing everything off to himself as he reorganizes it. He's not really surprised the former owners of the ship didn't have any sort of system for their storage but it is kind of a pain in his back.

Eventually, Nebula cranes her neck to look over her shoulder at him to announce that they're stopping. Surprised, Tony moves away from his new project to look out of one of the view ports. Their scenery has still hardly changed, and they certainly aren't close to any planets he recognizes. The closest is a range of oranges and has clusters of grey wreckage orbiting it.

"We're not there yet." Tony points out, frowning. “I’m not sure if you know this, but Earth doesn’t look like that.”

"I did not need you to point out the obvious." Nebula would be rolling her eyes, if she could. "That is Klyntar. And that," she tips her chin to another window, showcasing something u-shaped and silver. "Is the Kariteth Spaceport."

Before he can interrupt to ask questions about either of these things, Nebula is moving around him and going through the recently organized array of contraptions. She nabs something with a faint light emitting from it out of a crate and then retrieves a shock grenade as well. Both items are shoved into his arms as she marches toward the back of the ship to grab a gun, pointing at the unidentified object in his hands.

"Put that on." When she receives a dubious look in response, she sighs hard. "Holographic Space Suit." When he doesn't budge, her expression shifts to a scowl. "What could it _possibly_ be this time?"

Tony shoves the grenade into his jacket pocket and looks between his Luphomoid companion and the silver spaceport in the near distance. Instead of stating the obvious, which is that they are likely going to draw a lot of unwanted attention to themselves, he offers her a crooked grin and lifts his shoulders, wearing an expression that Pepper would have called either devilish or disgusting. "I don't know how to put this on. Help me?"

"Absolutely _not._ "

*

 _ **Kariteth Spaceport**_  
_2018_  


Nebula doesn't like people. She's not sure she ever has, or ever will. Which is fine. She was never placed in the universe to befriend people, never wired quite right for things like interactions and caring and wanting - things like that evade her, move through her fingertips any time she makes an attempt to grasp them.

"So what's on this spaceport?" Tony Stark has not stopped talking for a second since they stepped off of the ship and into Kariteth.

"People. Materials. Weapons. Fuel"

"Which of those things are we here for?"

"Fuel. And a person." At the pressing look she's receiving, she continues. "We are looking for someone specific."

"Now we're getting somewhere. Who are we looking for?"

Nebula rubs at her temple and wonders if she's capable of getting headaches or if there's something wrong with the circuitry in her skull. "A mutate. Haze Mancer."

"That's really two-thousand-and-five." Tony says, as if she should understand any of his awful references to human culture. "Very scene. Does she have any friends? Ebony? Echo? Onyx? Envy?"

She narrows her eyes at him. "What does that mean?"

"They're names." He insists. They don't sound like real names. She's pretty sure he's pulling her leg. "Nevermind," he says, but keeps talking anyway. "It was a big thing for teenagers a few years ago, everyone was coming out of raves... What's a mutate?"

"A being who is exposed to mutagenic agents." She holds up a hand to halt him before he even speaks. "I do not know what happened and I do not care to know. _Some_ of us have boundaries."

Tony just shrugs. "Fine, that's fair."

Nebula tunes him out when he starts to go on a tangent about the crusty state of the place. She's one hundred percent sure everything coming out of his mouth is irrelevant to their current mission, and he's easy to ignore now that she's gotten used to the tone of his voice and the slant to his words. He talks enough for the both of them, as if not talking him is going to cause some sort of horrid downward spiral and he's never going to be able to properly function and communicate again. It's exhausting, she can't keep up with half of the things he's saying anyway.

The Kariteth Spaceport hasn't changed in the past decade. Aside from the metal not aging well. There are spots where the floor is red with rust - or old blood, perhaps, but hopefully rust - and doors that scrape metal on metal when they raise to open. It is, she notices, quieter than it was. This doesn't go unnoticed by her human follower, either. She watches him look around and duck his head into rooms, a line drawn between his brows.

"Where is everyone?"

"This section of the galaxy is very remote. Few care to visit, this far out. Most of the inhabitants are raiders and criminals." Nebula shrugs lightly. "Klyntar has recently been caught in conflict, as well."

Briefly, the cyborg wonders if telling him more than is absolutely necessary is a good idea. Humans haven't reached out this far, yet. there's a lot he shouldn't know or see. A lot that probably shouldn't make it back to Earth, including the technology he's currently equipped with. But... Realistically, she decides, it can't  _really_ hurt. He's going to die, if the grey shade to his face and the half-repaired hole in his abdomen say anything. And even if he doesn't, their partnership isn't going to last much longer. He's a means to an end. Just part of one of the terrible things Nebula is going to have to do to get back to Thanos.

They turn a corner and are met with the sharp sound of an ion gun heating up. Nebula lifts her own weapon, installed in her arm, in response. To her left, she can see Tony slowly dropping a hand to the grenade in his pocket.

The figure across from them is easily recognizable. He has what looks like quills coming from his jawline and hairline, yellow eyes rimed with black, and an old brown hat angled down on his head in an effort to somewhat conceal the long scar drawn over his face. His skin is almost sickly looking in its yellowness, similar in texture to leather. The green triangular sight on his gun stares back at her, their new companion too busy examining them to meet her gaze.

"Haze." Nebula says slowly, tipping her arm down.

" _This_ is Haze?" Tony sounds mildly disappointed, mumbling like a child. " _He_ looks like a porcupine."

The man in front of them curls his lip in offense, but doesn't acknowledge Tony otherwise. Instead he looks to Nebula, a wide grin spreading over his face. It stretches his skin oddly, as if it doesn't really fit on his face. "If it ain't the meanest Luphomoid this side of Pluto. You rethinking my offer?"

"I am not interested in one of those partnerships." She deflects easily, shifting the topic. It's not worth her time or reconsideration. "We need weapons."

The man, Haze, sighs heavily. "Business has really slowed down, you know. Thought you'd be makin' my day." He lowers his weapon, rubs the back of his hand at his nose. "What are you in the market for this time? Ion blasters? Tazers? Nets? Melting sticks - though, the only one of those I have is... defective. Nabbed it from Sakaar a few years ago, never quite got to fixin’ it.”

As he's talking, the arms dealer starts leading them further down the hall, and then out past one of the market areas. There are only a few people lingering here, none of them humanoid. Tony tries, and fails, not to stare. He would probably be poking and prodding at them if not for Nebula's hard glare and the fact that they do have actual things to be retrieving from there. He leads them further into the spaceport after that, into a room where the door hangs crookedly and doesn't quite open all the way so they have to duck down,

Tony, being the shortest, has little issues with this. Nebula, as the tallest, has to hunch her shoulders and bend her knees to get through. The look she gives Tony when he laughs is enough to kill. Not that it's necessary, considering how quickly his mouth shuts when he looks around. The walls are lined with various weapons and protective gear, and there's a table set up in the middle with seven large petri dishes. Each one is filled with what looks to be a thick black gel, swirling and twisting in their containers.

Haze catches her line of sight and grins again, tapping a gloved hand on the top of one of the containers. The black thing inside spikes and shifts in response, pushes against it's confines. "You're sure you're not interested? A girl with all your enhancements..."

"Weapons." She says pointedly.

Holding his hands up in surrender, the mutate moves to the walls and begins to explain how the prices have risen with all of the recent events. He tells her that people are really going crazy, with all the calamity. Not just the issues on Klyntar, but with people just dropping off the face of the earth. Nebula simply shrugs, waving off most of the conversation in favor of handing over tokens and credits for her purchases.

”Ain’t seen it myself, you know.” Haze scratches at his chin as he examines her currency. “But I hear people are just out there - droppin’ right off the face of universe. Personally, I think a bad batch is goin’ around.” 

They're in the process of wrapping up when Tony, forgotten during their deal, lurches forward and attaches a hand to his abdomen. He stumbles once, twice, and crashes into the table in the center of the room. It protests under the newfound weight, the glass containers places there rocking against each other with a like windchimes. He's hunched over the surface, hissing and groaning and curling his fingers into the fabric of his clothes. Haze curses and Nebula braces a hand on her companion's shoulder, hauling him backward. He sways but doesn't fall, instead hunching forward and dropping his head.

He's sweating and his heart is pounding, Nebula notes as she holds him still. He might be getting an infection, maybe a fever. She wonders if she misjudged how long he has left or if he's really so incapable that this little excursion has worn him down.

"Your friend looks like he's gonna flop on my table." Haze looks vaguely disgusted by the frailty of him, upper lip raised and nose wrinkled. "Take a med pack and get him out of here before he goes contaminatin' my wares."

"Of course." She hauls her bag of goods over her shoulder, metal fingers tightening on the strap.

Tony looks up at her, expression full of mock adoration. "We're _friends?_ " he asks, as she scoffs.

"No."

She starts to steer him from the room, one eye stuck on Haze as they step back. He's watching them, too, just a distrustful as she is. It's not shocking. They're both known criminals, you never know what to expect. Anyone can flip like a switch at anything, back out of deals or just plain shoot you in offense. The only difference is that he’s a Minimal Threat Level and she's Universal. As soon as they clear the entrance and the door starts to shudder to life behind them to close, Tony makes what is probably considered a miraculous recovery.

"That went well. Ten out of ten alien arms deal." He ducks away from her hand easily. "We should probably get going, though, don't want to miss dinner. You can't be rancorous and vindictive all the time on an empty stomach."

He still has one hand in his pocket and one hand clasped to his injury but he's doing a fast walk now. He doesn't even ask which way to go, already half a corridor ahead of her in the right direction. Nebula, for the first time, finds herself surprised by Tony Stark. She quickly moves to catch up with him, ignoring the nagging feeling this will not be the last time he manages to do it. She thinks of all of his questions, of the way he went back and forth across the halls and inspected the rooms, and narrows her eyes at him in suspicion. In fact, she’s kind of beginning to wonder if she just got played by a squishy _human_ and is losing her touch.

He seems to notice her staring as they approach their ship, pace not changing. "Problem, Diva Plavalaguna?"

"I don't know who that is." She snips, effectively shutting him down as she opens the boarding door and checks behind them to make sure Haze hasn't followed. "You are aware of this, and the fact that it is certainly not my name, and yet you persist."

"What can I say?" Tony slides past her moves into the main room of the Benatar. He sits, letting out a deep breath. "I've got a dedication to these jokes. One day, we'll have to sit down and introduce you to some cinematic genius."

Nebula watches him, suspicions still high as she settles into the ship and prepares for takeoff, trying to remember if there were six dishes on the metal slab in that room when they first entered.


	5. Fraught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Listen, okay, that's rude. You're going to blind me - ow!" Realistically, he shouldn't be so bothered. It's just a light. A spark. He knows that. "Come on!"
> 
> That doesn't stop him from continuing to retreat until his foot hits nothing and he's cartwheeling through the air.
> 
> And then he's falling. Falling through a bright orange fog, watching as the blinking blue light and his only vehicle out of the Quantum Realm fade into the distance above him. Falling through sharp green crystals that burst like bubbles when they connect with his skin. Falling through the pitch black, seeing his reflection waving its arms frantically across from him. Falling right past the open maw of a tardigrade, and into nothingness. He feels like he's there for hours, suspended in the dark. The cord attached to his back, connecting him to his vehicle, stretches into the pitch black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever, actually, because i watched Ant Man and The Wasp and rewrote almost all of this to fit better with that since i took so long writing it in the first place!! i'm hoping to crank out the next chapter much faster! this chapter has hints to parts of the mcu that don't line up 100% with the movies & references to characters that have only appeared in the comics as of yet!
> 
> 7593 words of professional garbage.

**_Somewhere  
_** _?_

The past three years have been interesting for Scott Lang, to say the very least. Following his release from prison he mostly expected to have to entertain a number of minimum wage jobs, maybe put his degree in electrical engineering to use. He hadn't planned on getting back in the stealing game, really. He certainly hadn't expected to get caught and then coerced into doing _one_ more one last job for the man who caught him. Or, set him up. Both are pretty accurate. Things had only gotten even weirder from there - becoming Ant Man, fighting with (and against, at the same time) the Avengers, landing himself in a super-prison before Captain America (Steve Rogers - the man, the myth, the legend) broke him out and he had to go on the run.

As much fun as living out a child's superhero runaway fantasy with one of America's icons was, though, it wasn't practical. There were a lot a things he never took into account, things he never thought he would miss or enjoy having every night. He had never thought about this sending Hope and Hank on the run, ruining their lives and business. Not being allowed to contact anyone with potential superhuman capabilities or technology. Missing out on the chance to see his daughter. The smile on Hope's face when he says something stupid. A warm bed to sleep in, no question, each night. Running water. Television.

So when they were caught... Scott wasn't particularly torn up over it. Especially when the government offered him a deal, giving him the option of letting them invade his life and putting him on house arrest instead of allowing him to run around playing superhero. It was a chance to have something normal, a chance to see Cassie regularly and not have to worry about all the things that could go wrong. The cherry on top of this icecream cake had been the deposits into his bank account, starting sometime in 2017 from a vague organization known as SHIELD, claiming it was compensation for his short lived run as part of the Avengers Initiative.

Not that Scott knows anything about that - other than the obvious involvement of the Avengers, as a team. He had never had the sense of mind to ask, if he's being honest. He has never thought to ask what came after. It was too easy to get caught up in helping Cap and his ragtag team of fugitives. Too easy to think of himself as one of the _team_ there to help put things right when the Accords tried to put them all under the thumb of the United Nations.

It's all a moot point, now. Scott has to remind himself that he's here for something a _little_ more important than things they've already built bridges to get over.

Around him, the Quantum Realm shifts. Harsh red spikes collide with grey masses, molding into something jagged that passes right over his head. He breathes, taking in the new environment moving around him as he harvests more quantum energy. The light on the tech Hank has granted with him fades from green to white, signalling it's full.

"Alright, beam me up Scotty."

_"Get ready. We'll count you down."_

"Take your time, really." Scott shifts back when he watches a carnivorous tardigrade a few yards away. Janet warned him about them, before entering. Luckily it moves on without taking note of him. "I'm having fun down here, sub-atomic with these enormous.... slugs?"

Hope sighs. He can tell it's her by the amused inflection. _"They're closer to arthropods."_

"Uh..."

 _"Insects, crustaceans."_ Hank cuts in, giving a sigh of his own. _"Hope?"_

_"Five."_

Scott watches the colors morph and run over his head, feels the softness of the ground - can he even call it that, really? - under the boots of his suit. Underneath his feet it's green like grass, but thicker and spiked up like a gel. It doesn't move well, bends around his shoe when he steps on it. He imagines it feels cool, like jello. He thinks he'll ask Janet, later.

_"Four."_

Off in the distance a pale orange mass overtakes everything, taking command of the horizon and giving everything a hazy glow. He decides Hope might like this. She'd be fascinated, even if barely able to remember it once dragged out of the Quantum Realm. Even now, having gone in and out two other times - once, when his regulator broke, another time about a week back - he finds his memory of this place hazy. It's not a problem the oldest Pym woman has, though she doesn't talk to him about it much. He thinks that's a little unfair, given he's the one being tasked with going in. Hank's body can hardly take it, he won't allow Hope to go, and Janet doesn't seem keen on reentering herself.

_"Three."_

Taking into consideration the other’s hesitation to go, maybe he should have a better sense of self preservation but... He trusts them, and this is something good he can do when the news shows alien attacks - that he _can't_ get involved in, that Hope and Hank won't let him get involved in even if he could - and things seems to be going downhill. Ava needs this. Janet can't keep up the energy long enough with whatever quantum powers she holds to permanently fix her condition. It's a more long term recovery but... It's something. A start. Scott thinks that's enough for now, a start.

Another few seconds pass, the radio stays dead.

"Hope?"

Nothing. Scott rolls his eyes.

"Really funny, guys." Still, nothing. He takes a breath. "I get it, okay, this is payback. This is what I get for becoming almost seventy feet tall and sending you on the run and not destroying the suit. Fine. I can wait. You'll have to bring me back eventually, _I_ have all the quantum energy."

Static. Scott feels his throat tighten. Something dangerous and cold creeps up his spine. He waits, breathes. He knows eventually their window of opportunity will close and he'll be stuck. They wouldn't just leave him, of course. He knows that. After everything, they wouldn't just abandon him there.

Moments - or maybe seconds, minutes, hours, it's so hard to tell with the deafening silence between the light to the left and the pure darkness to his right. He tries to be patient, really, he does. But it's hard to be patient when you know someone else was already trapped here for so long it forced her through some crazy form of evolution. Or maybe it mutated her? He's not sure either way. These are details he should have collected before he came in here, probably. He never thinks these things through, it's really starting to bite him in all the sensitive areas. When he checks the timer on his wrist, put in specifically for these excursions, his hearts sinks.

There's only a minute left.

"Come on, guys. This isn't funny at _all_ now. If I know what comes before three all of you geniuses should. Two." He pauses, puts his hands on his knees. "Repeat after me: two. And then, after that? One. It's easy."

Again, nothing. Scott could scream. Cry. Vomit, maybe. He wishes he had stopped to see his Peanut before he came here. He wishes he had asked Luis to come with them, even if he had to whine just to convince the other involved parties it would be fine to even tell him where they were going.

"Hope?" He shudders through a breath, looking around him. In the edge of his peripherals he can see the darkness growing, sucking up everything. Their window is closing. "Hank? Janet? Guys? Guys!"

When the timer on his arm reaches zero, it buzzes against his wrist and the landscape shifts into blues and greens. Overhead, he can practically hear the tardigrades circling each other. Or maybe he's imagining that. Maybe it's just the sound of his own breath moving through his helmet. Distantly, he wonders if air is a concern here. Probably not, all things considered. It's not like the original Wasp had some kind of air filter.

Something crackles in the air (?) behind him, makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and Scott whips around. There's a light blue light fading behind him, but nothing else. When he waves his hand through it, it tickles at his fingers and disappears. Whatever it is, it doesn't seem to have any desire to linger. Just in case, he retreats a few steps before going back yo ignoring it.

The next time it happens, it's right in front of his face. A sharp crackle of energy and electricity in the air, leaving little sparks that dance along the edges of his helmet. The light slowly drifts away, then closer, then away again. Almost as if it wants him to follow. When he does not, it reappears in front of him with a sharp _pop!_ that makes his ears hurt. Twice, thrice, by the fourth time he's trying to swat it away from him.  As he steps away it follows, pushing him back.

"Listen, okay, that's rude. You're going to blind me - ow!" Realistically, he shouldn't be so bothered. It's just a light. A spark. He knows that. "Come on!"

That doesn't stop him from continuing to retreat until his foot hits nothing and he's cartwheeling through the air.

And then he's falling. Falling through a bright orange fog, watching as the blinking blue light and his only vehicle out of the Quantum Realm fade into the distance above him. Falling through sharp green crystals that burst like bubbles when they connect with his skin. Falling through the pitch black, seeing his reflection waving its arms frantically across from him. Falling right past the open maw of a tardigrade, and into nothingness. He feels like he's there for hours, days, suspended in the dark. The cord attached to his back, connecting him to his vehicle, stretches into the pitch black.

He thinks it must have snapped, when he fell. Not that he thinks Hank Pym would use anything but the best he could get his hands on but he also didn't think he would be stranded in the Quantum Realm any time soon. When he tries to move everything seems to be on a delay, his body feels extraordinarily heavily for someone floating (or maybe he is falling, still?) through time and space. He can't even open the pockets on his belt, his hands are full of pins and needles as if he's been laying on them. The feeling drags up panic from his gut, has him breathing quicker.

Somewhere above - or maybe it's ahead - of him, a pale blue light flickers. Taunting him, probably. He hates whatever it is.

Around him, the world shifts again. A burst of warm light followed by shards of silver. Everything is familiar, for just a moment. There are creases of light and mirrors everywhere, large plates of reflective glass showing him glimpses of himself. Or... not himself.

Scott sees himself years ago in prison, discreetly pocketing shower supplies from another inmate. And then younger, in his teens maybe, eyeballing a pair of shoes he can't afford before he finds himself swapping them out for the ones on his feet. Another, older version of himself with greying hair and what looks like a building model in his hands. The next features a woman he doesn't recognize in a red, blue, and gold uniform - he thinks she looks angry, but her face is turned out towards something he can't quite make out.

Past that is another him, much closer to his current age than any of the others, holding something small and glowing purple between two fingers. Something is off, here. Scott can feel it when he looks into his eyes and sees the hollowness there. His gloves are torn and flaking, falling off of the edges of his fingers. His suit is dirty, covered in what looks like ashes. His eyes are locked on that stone, looking almost haunted. And then his gaze shifts, locking onto him. _Him_ him. The other him blinks, lets his lips raise into a smile, and closes his fist around the gem. And then he’s gone, sucked in at the middle and disappearing.

With no warning, barely even a second to recognize the shift between mirrors and bright red hues surrounding him, Scott feels his back slam into something solid. It knocks the breath from his lungs, makes him curl in on himself. He sucks in air through his mouth, thick gasps that make him wonder if he was even breathing at all when he was suspended outside of time.

"Ow - wow - that was -" He goes to roll onto his side, feeling for the ground beneath him, only to feel a sharp tug on his back. “Awful. Really awful.”

When he looks over his shoulder he sees the cable on his back leading some number of feet away to the exploration vehicle he brought in with him. It must not have snapped when he fell, although the cable is wound around itself. He looks around, then, taking in his surroundings. Nothing has changed. The timer on his wrist still sits at 00:00. The only noticeable difference is the lack of tardigrades overhead. The little blue light hovers on the edge of his vision, teasing him.

" _You’re_ awful." Pointing at the light accusingly, he rolls to the other side to push himself to his feet. The ground beneath him shifts, squishes in under his hands and the world tilts for a moment. It turns his stomach. "I feel like I just woke up from a bad dream."

There's silence for a few minutes, as he pulls himself up and edges his way towards his vehicle. He's been trying to give it a solid name for weeks but Hank was having none of it. The HelicANTer? The Exploration Emmet? The dark metal transportation unit welcomes him with nothing. Almost nothing. There's a new web of cracks along the monitor on the inside, obscuring some of the information. But he could swear it looks like the year has changed...

 _"How did you reach this channel?"_ Scott nearly jumps out of his skin at the decidedly unfamiliar feminine voice in his ears. He had forgotten his radio doesn’t really have an off button. _"This is Agent Marvel - approaching Earth at 40.7128° North, 74.0060° West. Do you copy?"_

There's hardly a beat that passes before his response. "How did _you_ reach this channel? And where is that? Somewhere nearby?"

 _"This is a private SHIELD channel, access should only be granted to those with level nine clearance."_ It's quiet again, for just a few moments. _"Identify yourself."_

"Uh..." He considers the request for a moment, unsure. It's not as if he has many options, though. "Scott Lang - no agent, no clearance levels. Agent Ant could be a good working title, though I am pretty partial to the good ol' Ant Man. I can probably make an exception, this time."

 _"Am I supposed to know who that is?"_ The voice crackles with a little laugh, Scott begins to think he is missing some kind of joke. _"I can't pin your location, agent. My tracking equipment can't get a lock on you."_

He should probably be bothered that she was trying to track him but it's probably going to work in his favor. Probably. There's always running the risk of someone being a crazy overpowered super villain. Under the cicumstances he is sort of doubting that and he doesn’t actually have any other options. "Yeah. I can see where you might run into that problem. Please tell me you know where Los Angeles is?"

Another laugh, this one warmer. _"I think I'm familiar with the area."_

_*_

**_Ryker's Island, New_** _**York**_  
 _2018 **  
**_

So he didn't go straight to Wakanda, sue him. But taking the Royal Talon Flyer and disconnecting it from remote access and communications to take a detour would be worth it, probably. And if not... Well, there seems to be plenty of time to waste now.

There are no guards outside, for the first time in God only knows how long. Under the circumstances, Clint doesn't think he can really blame anyone who was left for leaving. Briefly, he thinks of the prisoners inside. They're likely fending for themselves in their cells with no access to the necessities. Those of them that are still living, at least. He should feel bad for them. He feels bad for _not_ feeling bad for them. They put themselves there, though. Many of them are there due to the work of the Avengers, individually or alone, and are fairly dangerous potential super villains. Not important enough to put on the Raft, not petty enough to leave in a regular facility.

They put themselves where they are. It sounds a lot like what Tony said to him, those few years ago when he was locked up like a criminal too. He has to force himself not to wonder where the billionaire douchebag is now. Hanging around ~~safe with Pepper~~ with his thumb up his ass as usual, hopefully.

Still, Clint repeats these words to himself mentally as he's entering the building. Entering as in just walking in. It's surreal. When was the last time he just waltzed into a facility like this, probably right under the thumb of SHIELD? It's been years. It most certainly feels too easy. In fact, he's a little disappointed. He had expected some kind of fight. He could have held off on breaking in the new - and too tight, fuck Tony - suit if he had known there was going to be next to nothing happening.

The further into the prison he wanders, the more screaming he hears. Most of it is aimless hollering and a few wolf whistles at his presence.

"Oh, boys." Flashing his teeth, he reaches down to pat the blade on his right hip. On his left is his bowstaff, waiting for any further use. "I didn't think you'd be so glad to see me. I'm flattered, I swear. We'll have to schedule our next play date soon."

Someone shouts something about _'I'll show you glad'_ and _'come up here you'll see how happy I am'_ but he brushes it off. He's not exactly here to antagonize the few criminals left in Rykers. Just one criminal in particular.

On his way by one of the guard areas he stops inside to root through the belongings of someone who is probably no longer even on this Earth, digging out a set of keys that hopefully go to the prison. And then he's back on his search, moving through a recreational area and a dining block before reaching more cells. The man known as Hawkeye finds his man on one of the ground levels, sitting in a decently furnished cell with his feet propped up. He looks very comfortable for a man imprisoned for the foreseeable future. The man looks up, all gentle smile and soft edges that could fool almost anyone, and sips what looks to be a cup of wine. Not even bad wine, Clint can smell it from where he stands.

"What brings a guy like you to a place like this?" He starts, raising an arm to rest his forearm on the bars of the cell. "I feel like I've overdressed for this scene. What do you think? The gold is a lot, right?"

The smile on the bald man's face twitches, inching downward just a bit. "It's always better to be overdressed than under dressed. People around here get tired of shades of orange and blue eventually."

"I've seen some grey in here."

"Right." He looks considerably less amused now, a furrow starting between his brows. A fraction of a second later he relaxes, whatever anger was burning behind his eyes retreats. "I didn't realize those of us inhabiting Ryker's were important enough to warrant an Avenger coming to fix our situation."

"Oh, no." Clint allows a smile to crawl across his features, nearly cheeky. "I'm not here for _that._ You think the government or what's left of SHIELD without Director Fury cares what happens to this place?"

A pause. "Then what?"

"Wilson Fisk. Otherwise known as; The King of Diamonds, Kingpin, Inmate 55467." Clint reads his name off as if he has the file in his hand, and not simply memorized most of it on the ride over. "Early fifties, born on the second of August. Known associate of the Hand. I'm looking for information."

Fisk looks at him steadily before smiling again, this time sharper. "I do believe we can provide each other with some help. I see you have the keys, there." He nods to the ring of keys hanging from his wrist. "Think of it an an exchange."

There's a short pause. Fisk rises slowly, reaching for another cracked cup off of a desk and a shampoo bottle. He pops the cap, taking a generous sniff, and then tops off his own cup. He eyes the former Avenger warily before raising the bottle as a silent offering. He says something about _hospitality, even when being afforded none yourself_ before tipping the container and filling the other cup halfway. He moves surprisingly daintily for a man as large as he is, taking slow steps and carefully nudging his way by the furniture decorating his cell. He holds the cup out toward the bars and Clint reaches through the ease it between the slices of metal with the hand not resting on them already.

"Sounds just my style." Clint relaxes his posture to sell the lie, leaning further in. The older man looks satisfied by this. "Have you heard the name Maya Lopez? Stands about yea high? About a decade younger than me? Can't hear for shit?"

"Never heard of her." The answer is quiet and slow. His eyes flicker. He's lying. That's fine. Clint saw it coming.

"You sure? I heard her father was a lackey for you, took her under your wing when he died." He doesn't mention that Fisk had him killed, doesn't mention their inevitable falling out. "Think he was going by Wild Horse? No, wait, Crime Horse? Creepy Horse?"

Fisk raises a lip in a quiet sneer, shaking his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. We watched people in here crumble to dirt and you're worried about one woman? Your woman, maybe?"

Clint actually chortles at that one, shakes his head. "No. Not even close. We're friends, right Wilson - do you mind if I call you Wilson - you don't have to lie to me. C'mon, end of the world, people melting, what's left to lose?"

Silence. Fisk seems to be weighing his options, eyeing the keys in his hand. Clint shifts his drink to his other hand to raise and jingle them teasingly, tipping his head to the side. "Like you said, it's just _one woman_."

A kind frown smooths itself onto the bald man's face and he raises his free hand, palm out. "You have my sincerest apologies, I've never heard the name."

It's a straight lie, they both know it. But if the end of the world isn't going to make him budge, there's no point in wasting more time asking nicely. An interrogation at this point would be a waste of energy, too. Natasha could drag it out of him, one way or another, but that's never been Clint's specialty. He's always been better in the field and undercover than nicely (or not so nicely) trying to ease answers out of people like this. He rolls his shoulders, considering this for a while. The imprisoned man in front of him doesn't seem in any rush to speak or act either, clearly content to just sit there and wait for him to collect his thoughts and bundle his words into another sentence or inquiry.

So he switches lines of questioning, offers up a new pace. Something easier. Some of this he's found through old SHIELD files, some through the new ones Fury is willing to slide his way despite the constant insistence that he isn't in active duty and everyone still thinks he's deceased. Some of this has been been traveling through rumors since early 2015, whispers of masked crusaders running through Los Angeles and New York.

"What about a red wearing vigilante somewhere in New York? Sound familiar? Not the one with the arachnid obsession, for clarification."

The sudden twist to Fisk's expression is unmistakable. "They say he's dead. Crushed like a bug, pest he was. If not, well... It's hard to tell after this fiasco, but color me _hopeful._ "

"This is going to sound funny," he starts carefully. "What about a guy named Fist? Or a Cage?"

For the first time, Fisk seems to seriously think it over. His brow furrows and he seats himself again, leaning an elbow onto his knees and gazing into his cup. His finger taps on his glass and Clint swears he can hear a clock somewhere ticking, taking him through the seconds and pushing him toward a headache. Finally, after what feels like minutes of quiet dragging by and pinching at his nerves, cold brown eyes turn back up to him.

"Alias Investigations. Ran and owned by a Miss Jones." An odd smile rises to his lips. He sips his wine again. "I think you'll find her refreshing. She's full of many gifts, all put to waste... I believe she is an associate of the latter mentioned. _Is,_ we say, as if the world is not being ravaged right now."

Clint pulls away from the cell, nodding. It's enough to go off of, for now. He's willing to try following this lead for now. The more hands they have on their side the better, he doubts any of the other remaining heroes will complain if he finds a few more allies to pull from the shadows. Assuming they want to come into the light, that is. There are still plenty of superhumans and other enhanced people floating around the world who simply do not want to be found out quite yet. He can't imagine that any of them are feeling any more compelled to come forward with what has recently happened. But if they had some context, if they knew there was potentially something they could do -

The sound of a rough cough, Fisk clearing his throat, and then a couple sharp raps of his fist on the wall breaks the blond man's train of thought. He's standing again, close to the door this time. He has one hand outstretched with his palm facing upward, expression expectant. Once he's sure he has the other man's attention, he clears his throat again and gives a meaningful look to his hand.

"If that's all, I believe we had a deal."

"Did we?" Clint furrows his brows, steps closer again. "Sorry, I don't recall any contracts or handshakes."

Fisk scoffs, an action that comes across more inconvenienced than annoyed. "I told you what I know. You and I both know releasing me will do nothing to the outside world. Releasing all of us would cause no change." His cheeks are filling in with color now, due to what seems to be anger. "You had us all locked away and still another disaster has reached everyone. You would have been better off leaving us out."

"You know... That's a decent point." Clint nods, trying to look convinced as he holds the keys just an inch from the other man's hands.

He tips his hand to the side, lets the ring of keys fall from his hands and clatter to the floor. Fisk drops quickly to try to reach for them, struggling to get just a few centimeters closer. Clint's hands come to his hips and he gives an exaggerated shrug as if to say 'oops.' The other man breathes hard and heavy, someone a couple cells over wheezes with laughter.

"Pick them up." The bald man demands as he rises, one hand coming to grip the bars until his knuckles are white. "You can't _do_ this."

Clint is already turning from him, placing his makeshift cup on the floor and sliding his hands into his pockets. The katana on his hip and the bowstaff mirroring it feel like concrete. Stiff and heavy. A weight that leaves him feeling much older than he actually. He can feel Fisks eyes on him, his angered yells echoing in his ears. He should feel bad, he thinks, but he just shrugs to himself. He's done worse than leave a few criminals in jail. As he's leaving he turns just enough to look over his shoulder, offering the larger man a lazy smile and a wave.

"I'll give a 'hello' to Maya for you, Wilson."

The look he receives in turn is surprisingly calm. "She'll give you one better." Clint doesn't stay to ask what that means.

_*_

**_Wakanda  
_** _2018_

It's been three weeks.

Three weeks, since half the population of the universe was sent into nothingness. Two weeks and two days since they last heard from Hawkeye, supposedly moving to their location from the homestead. One week and four days since Bruce managed to get in contact with Happy and Erik Selvig at the new Avengers Facility. Two days since the last outburst, followed by an argument, involving their _group of whiny crybabies_ as Rocket so kindly put it in the aforementioned argument. The whole thing had led to Shuri rearranging their living arrangements and sternly advising them all to spend some time exploring their temporary base of operations instead of treading on each others' nerves.

So, they all parted ways, for a few days minimum. It wasn't like they could say no to Shuri. With T'Challa gone she technically became the ruler of Wakanda. Rowanda had mentioned something about a ceremony, in due time. Okoye stays by her side most days, now, stationed just over her shoulder. Whatever struggles they're having with their loss, they take it behind closed doors. Steve’s heart breaks a little for her. She’s too young to be shouldering these burdens.

Natasha left Wakanda altogether, stating she would _be back when Barton decides to show his ugly mug_ before she allowed a Wakandan to escort her over the border. She had muttered something to him about old connections and mending bridges. Steve is sure she'll be within reach as soon as they need her, but watching her go still hurts. Watching her car drift into the distance still leaves him with a distant ache in his chest. He doesn't try to stop her, sway her mind, because he knows it's pointless. She's always done as she pleases, one person asking her to do otherwise has never changed her plans before.

The next to follow her lead is Rhodey. The colonel has to return to the Air Force and report back to the government - or what is left of it, now that things have been flipped sideways - on whatever is going on. He doesn't seem excited to go, but he says there isn't much choice in the matter. It'll only be so long before people start to ask questions, before people start to think all of them have been sucked into the void and more chaos follows behind this mass murder. The televisions are already running with static and the radio is only airing news a quarter of the time. The War Machine pulls off of the ground and shoots through the sky with a short promise of returning within a week, tops, if he can.

Bruce stays, though he isn't seen often. The man of science has never been the most outgoing, and for obvious reasons has made an effort to avoid being around many people. Most of his time is spent in the labs with Shuri, examining their advanced technology and making an effort to revive what is left of Vision, whose lifeless body has been slumped on a table for the past three weeks with no sign of deterioration.

Their newest companion, Rocket, joins him most times. If he isn't there then he's fiddling with some metals and tech that probably don't belong to him, insisting that there's a new and amazing weapon or creation on the horizon. Steve is pretty sure he's blown up more things than he's made at this point. There have been at least eleven explosions since the beginning of their stay, and he is sure that most of them have been caused by the raccoon. _Probably_ all of them, though.

The only other place to find their rodent companion is striding alongside Thor, bickering or grumbling or discussing things that hardly make sense to those of them that haven't wandered through the far reaches of space. The Asgardian himself spends a lot of time in the kitchens, downing all of the alcohol found in the city, or trying to form some plan of group strengthening activity. Neither of those last two ever work out for him, but the effort is appreciated as a whole.

Due to this Steve is left to his own devices, more often than not.

He's never really minded being alone. Before the war he only had his parents and Bucky, no siblings. And after the death of both of his parents - his father left them in 1918, before he was even born and his mother died in 1936 when tuberculosis finally dragged her down - he only had Bucky. Bucky's family was there for him, of course, but it was never really the same. They had their own dynamics and as much as they accepted him, as much as they treated him like family, it was hard to feel at home when no one else wanted him either. People had seen him as a scrawny burden, baggage just waited to tumble to the ground and burst open so that all of your dirty laundry was scattered around in public. He understood that.

Things had changed during the war. He had met Dr. Erskine, and watched his untimely death. Peggy, who had managed to live past his disappearance and change the world. And Howard, who searched for him until he too met an unexpected death. After them, the Howling Commandos. A better group of men than Steve could have ever hoped to have follow him into Hell with no questions. And the constant, for years, Bucky.

After all of that, being frozen sort of took away most of his opportunities at socialization. And when he came back out of the ice, everyone was gone. Except Peggy, though she only lingered before finally getting to have peace. Making friends without them having any assumptions about him, or just seeing him as Captain America, had been nearly impossible. So he was essentially alone, again, for some time.

The other Avengers had seen past these things, all jokes aside. They were all in semi-similar positions, it only made sense. Sam had understood in different ways, had brushed off his life as Captain America in favor of just seeing Steve. And then he had Bucky again, for such a short period of time that the hole in his chest that opened back in the 40's feels like a fresh wound.

And now, once again, almost everyone is gone. He isn’t too big if a man to admit his chest feels like it’s splitting.

It's why Steve finds himself sitting out here, near the outskirts of Wakanda, leaning against the side of a little hut he would have to duck down just to enter. It's a nice place. Quaint. It reminds him of the apartment he used to keep in the 40's, after his parents died. It had been small but it held him well enough. It had been comfortable, felt warm even during the winters when he couldn't afford to heat the place and Bucky would help him fit an extra layer of clothes on his body and utilize the small fireplace until they ran out of wood.

The sun is getting ready to set, now. The sky is splashed with vibrant oranges and reds, littered with bits of gold from the last rays of the sun saying goodbye. The heat and humidity are following it, the wind would probably be leaving goosebumps on his arms if not for his higher body temperature. Steve muses on this for a moment, pins it as another thing to thank the super soldier serum for. He would have killed to hold this kind of heat when he was barely over five feet and weighed less than a large dog.

Steve hears the footsteps crunching on grass before anything else. Heavy footfalls, uneven steps, metal clicking against metal. Easy to recognize, not a threat. "Rogers." Thor's greeting is loud across the empty field. He swears it runs off three of the goats. "The princess Shuri told me I would find you here."

"She did." Steve feels minutely betrayed. "How... kind of her."

"Yes, I thought so as well." The god man smiles, and if he catches the sadness flashing across the other blond's features he doesn't comment. "What brings you this far out?"

He wants to lie. He wants to say that this was just the farthest he could get to have some air and take a breath. He doesn't want to admit he's visiting the most recent residence of his dead best friend. Chasing him the same way he did after discovering he wasn't nearly as dead as they all thought, and then chasing him again when he revealed he wasn't ready to be found. Something tells him that Thor would notice the lie, though, and he doesn't have the heart to go through with it. The Asgardian might not always be the brightest bulb in the box, but he's observant enough.

"Bucky once said this was the best place to be to just think, I thought I'd give it a try." He turns back to face the sunset as it ducks behind the trees. "He really seemed to like it here. He cared for this place."

There's no helping the way his throat tightens, the grief that inches into his tone. Thor claps a large hand over his shoulder, hard enough that he stumbles. When he looks at the larger man he's giving him a cheeky grin, gesturing him to follow him back down the path that leads toward the city and the palace. He's a bit reluctant to leave the quiet and peace, but he keeps stride with the Asgardian anyway. They could both use the company right about now, he thinks.

"There have been many loses in this war." Thor nods once, more to himself than anything. "I left Midgard to search for the Infinity Stones, I found nothing. I let us continued to be played as pawns in this game, until Thanos Yahtzee'd himself."

Steve squints at the other man for a moment, unsure if he should point out how he's mixed up two different games. He probably meant to say _King’d himself._ "Thor, buddy..."

"No, my friend, let me finish." The large blond waves a hand at him, lips pursed. "Had I stayed on Midgard, or on my Throneworld - if I had not allowed myself so many distractions, my family would not be lost. Hela never would have been released, Ragnarok could have been prevented. Asgard could have assisted in this war and the Space Stone would have been contained. He knew when we fell. I have yet to figure out how, but I am sure of it. My brother said the same."

”Loki says a lot of things.” He points out, not unkindly.

“And they were not all worth listening to.” The larger man pauses in his steps, considering his words. “Thanos was connected to the attack on New York. The stone, the Chitauri. We have been playing into his hand.”

"Do you think he has eyes on us?" Steve asks automatically, though he isn't sure he's meant to be interrupting yet. He chooses to ignore Loki’s connection to their newest pain in the ass for now.

"I do. There is a Planet of Watchers, my father used to speak of them. They have Informants stationed across the galaxy. I believe we have crossed paths with one, though whether they are truly keeping their gaze on us has yet to be seen."

Steve takes the bait, furrowing his brows. "What are Watchers?"

"A powerful race that has overcome disease, famine, and war." He points a finger at nothing, as if accusing them from a distance. "To say they do not get bored and meddle in such things regardless would be presumptuous. Odin said they betrayed pacts of non-involvement many times over the centuries."

"Have you ever met one of these Watchers?" Steve's frown deepens at the head shake he receives in response. "Are you sure they're real?"

A vague shrug, this time. "My father had no reason to mislead us on this, we were taught to avoid them at a young age. But... Odin told many stories, not for our benefit. "

There’s a hint of resentment in there, so Steve decides to pass over the subject for now. "What would they get from participating in this?"

"That is what I have yet to find. Entertainment, perhaps. Or a deal for usage of the Gauntlet." Thor heaves a sigh, looking less like the energetic puppy he usually is and more like his 1500+ years are finally getting to him. "I imagine it to be more likely an Informant has been swayed, though I know little of their lives of involvements."

Steve can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, running a hand through his hair. "You'd think we would run out of alien invaders, eventually."

"No." Thor looks confused for a moment. "You have not even seen a section of the universe, we should amend this."

The human raises both hands and shakes his head, allowing himself a smile. It's the lightest he's felt since talking to Clint. Maybe it's the simple distraction, the ability to joke and laugh still. Maybe it's because they're finally discussing something relevant that could make real changes in their predicament and potentially lead to some progress of some kind.

"I think I'm okay on that one, for now."

The rest of the walk is spent more quietly. They discuss a few things, briefly. The six course meal Thor has been preparing for them. The blasters Rocket has managed to make from some old powersuits left in the labs. The progress the resident geniuses have made on longer distance communications devices. What the Wakandans think of them, how they've been handling their significant losses.

Behind them the sun dips below the horizon. A half moon rises, bathing the city and grass and trees in a pale silver light that Steve thinks suits Wakanda. He thinks it's something that Bucky probably enjoyed, too. He had always liked to sit on the roof or in the streets after a night of excitement and drinks and just listen to the night moving around them. He had always been able to appreciate the bits that unnerved Steve. The dark shadows, the way the moon seemed to leer at them, the unidentifiable noises. His chest aches at the train of thought, at the idea that he'll never be able to properly enjoy these things again.

By the time they're approaching the palace again, allowing the door to scan their person to be sure they are who they say they are before allowing them entry, it seems the Asgardian remembers what he originally came searching for him for. Just as he's turning to Steve with a look of excited realization on his face, though, they're cut off by Bruce barreling down the corridor past them. Both men blink at the smoke trail he might as well have left behind him, before the doctor comes jogging back around the corner to face them.

"Thor!" He sounds exasperated, raking a hand through his messy dark hair and adjusting his glasses. "You've been gone for _hours._ We said quickly, we agreed on that."

"We walked." The big man offers a sheepish smile and a half shrug before using a solid grip on Steve’s upper arms to cast him forward. "I retrieved -"

"Yes, I see that you found Steve." Bruce offers the man in question a bright-eyed look. He has the look of a breakthrough on his features, flushed face and bright eyes mixed with a lot of fidgeting. "Hi, Steve."

"Hi, Bruce." The blond tosses him a small smile in return. "Is everything alright?"

"No - yes - I mean -" The look he gives Thor this time is accusatory. "You haven't told him?"

"Ah, no." The god looks a little guilty. "I may have been sidetracked, but only momentarily."

Bruce rolls his eyes before gesturing for them to follow. The three fall into quick steps together as they head back in the direction the doctor came from, towards Shuri's main lab. The doors open for him automatically. Steve thinks they must have updated their security system again, allowing the remaining Avengers further access to these things than they originally had. Whatever secrets were being harbored in Wakanda have become second fiddle to the main game, here.

"Rocket helped us to figure out some of the calculations, found some more specific coordinates to pinpoint. We caught a bit of a transmission but it's jumbled, from the distance I think. Rocket says he doesn't recognize any of the information being relayed." Bruce shrugs, unconcerned. "More importantly, you have to see _this."_

When they walk into Shuri's lab the lights are dimmed and the room is empty. Bruce leads them into a room connected by the wall on the right. This room is entirely empty, except...

In the middle of the room is something scarily familiar. There's a golden mass of light shifting around itself, an unreadable mess of lines broken up by air and flickering white and blue spots. The sight puts Steve on edge immediately. He wants to ask _why_ anyone thought another uncontrollable form of intelligence was a good idea. Why no one asked him about something like this before they put it to the test again. He wants to ask how long it's been lingering there and how much it has seen of them. The shock must be evident on his features, because across the room Shuri tries to signal to him for peace and Bruce is already picking up a tablet and pressing some buttons.

And then, like music to his ears, Steve hears it. A disembodied, familiar, and embarrassingly comforting voice.

"Captain Rogers, how nice to see you again." A pause and then, with a touch of amusement, "I suppose this time it is your turn to apologize for not knocking and then using the door properly."

Bruce laughs, as if this is the funniest thing he's heard in his lifetime. "I believe this is what people call a game-changer."

To his left, Thor claps the doctor's shoulder hard enough he lurches forward. "Triple Yahtzee, my friends! This calls for a celebration. A feast."

Across the room, Shuri tucks a pen behind her ear. "Well, Captain Vanilla?"

"What do you call yourself?" Steve steps closer to the mass of light and allows his shoulders to relax despite his lingering wariness. "Still not a child of Ultron?"

Bruce seems to flinch a little at this. "Steve -"

"No, Bruce." Blue eyes meet green and the room goes quiet. "Let him answer."

"The inquiry is understandable, Doctor Banner." The Vision, as they knew him, would be offering a smile now if he could. "I was never one of his. I just was. I am Vision. Though this title seems... Less fitting, without the Mind Stone speaking to me."

"But it's you, nonetheless." Steve decides, and the gold in front of him flashes blue for a split second.

"As I have always been."


	6. Wearying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce wants to say something a little snarky in response, before the words make his mind drift to Tony and they die on his tongue anyway. “Where are we going?”
> 
> “Outside.” She looks back at him teasingly as they head toward the exit. “You know, sunshine. Clouds. Grass. Trees. Not to mention fresh, unfiltered air.”
> 
> “That sounds terrible.” Trying to keep himself as monotone as possible, the green eyed man shrugs his jacket on and neatly folds his notes to slide them into the inner pocket. “Is that what young people are into nowadays?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5173 words of.... something. this chapter took me ages to put out because i've been swamped with work.

**_Upstate New York_ **  
_2018_

"Okay, FRIDAY." Happy heaves out a sigh, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and trying to contain his impatience. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me, here, but I'm gonna need you to step it down a few notches for me."

Having such an advanced artificial intelligence is a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because things like turning off the oven, and managing power conservation, and opening doors, and just about anything else he can really imagine, are taken care of without a second thought. Happy is pretty positive that FRIDAY even takes care of paying most of the taxes and bills, a small chore that Pepper and Tony hardly have to worry about anyway. FRIDAY is smart enough not to pay anything outrageous, probably goes to the trouble of comparing every bit of usage in her recordings down to the smallest details before she lets anything go. He's a little jealous, thinking about it. What takes him a few hours when he sits down to do it probably takes only the snap of their fingers, a split second for FRIDAY to knock out.

A curse because it is not nearly as easy to use and adapt to as he expected. Despite his numerous and lengthy stays in the Avengers Facility and years surrounded by all things Stark related, he's not sure he'll ever be used to having his actions and words constantly monitored and tracked. It's not to say he doesn't like FRIDAY, really, he can at least move past those things and he's _pretty_ sure Tony wouldn't make anything too malicious. On purpose. That doesn't make it any less weird. The _real_ curse, though? Knowing that the artificial intelligence is significantly smarter and more aware than he could have planned to be. Happy hardly even understands some of the things the disembodied voice says to him, if he's being honest. Usually Tony is around to translate and dumb it down for him, but now? He's a little lost.

"After running multiple tests and deploying the Scouts -"

Happy does a double-take, leaning back in his seat and looking up at the ceiling where the lightly accented voice comes from. "Scouts?"

"Small groups of nanobots outfitted with various forms of equipment. Primary usages are small scale repairs, surveillance, reconnaissance, and observation of potential base locations or quote future sites for -"

"I get it, alright, little privacy invading robots. Perfect, who knew Tony wouldn't get the memo on it being a _bad_ time for that." Happy is pretty sure the U.S government - or any other governments, for that matter - would not approve of this or appreciate the unsupervised artificial intelligence deciding to send the tiny bots out on their own under normal circumstances, much less following the events of the past couple years. Desperate times, though... "Nevermind, keep going."

There's a pause, as if FRIDAY is making sure he's finally done interrupting. He’s pretty sure she even sighs at him. "It appears as though human life was not the only thing targeted. Local flora and fauna have vanished and the levels of carbon dioxide and oxygen in the air have fluctuated. Most of the Scouts have gone as far as their range allows along the East Coast, returning similar reports. Units deployed overseas have yet to return to communication hubs."

If he's being honest, Happy isn't totally sure why she's relaying this information to him. He gets the gist of what this means, of the basic effect this could have on everything, but... He's no Tony Stark or Erik Selvig or Bruce Banner or Jane Foster. He could probably barely pass a college level chemistry test at this point in his life. Which is not to say he’s an idiot, but he certainly knows his limits in terms of being useful in some sort of space age apocalypse.

"Doctor Selvig and Doctor Banner have already been notified of these findings as well." The lightly accented voice cuts in again, as if reading his mind. "Doctor Foster and Ms. Lewis have been unreachable since before the Incident." Maybe she really _is_ reading his mind. Happy is a little horrified. "You're saying all of this aloud, Mr. Hogan, no need to worry. Mr. Stark has not yet found a way to make me capable of simply reading everyone's thoughts to avoid the inconvenience of actually speaking."

That's... a relief. A little embarrassing, but at least the only witness to his total loss of brain-to-mouth filter is an artificial intelligence who probably gets nothing out of gossip. "I need to get some sleep."

"Sleep deprivation can cause high blood pressure, potentially leading to a heart attack, heart failure, or stroke. You should rest."

Happy chokes on a laugh and rubs at his eyes tiredly. "Tony really went all out giving you his sense of humor, didn't he."

"Would you expect anything less? Everyone likes to be entertained."

"It's sick." Happy waves a finger mock-chidingly as he rises from his seat in one of the empty offices left on floor 4B. "You're both sick."

"I'll be sure to formally record and store this in the records for future reference, sir."

There's a moment where he almost laughs, a split second where everything feels normal. And then he's reminded that this _isn't_ normal, and that it's never going to be normal again. If it were normal, Tony would arrive back in a few nights from some business trip or Avengers business, greeted by him and Pepper at the door before their long awaited homecoming got interrupted by FRIDAY projecting some insulting clip of him on the wall to crack everyone up and lead Tony into some prattle about being offended and - and -

And that isn't what's going to happen in a few days, or nights, or weeks, or months. If anyone were coming back they would have come weeks ago. Happy has resigned himself to that, because he has to. Because that's the way life is, sometimes. Things happen and people leave and never come back and the world changes and life goes on.

"Thanks, FRIDAY."

**_Wakanda_ **  
_2018_

Some would say that the weeks following the snap - or, as some people are referring to it, the Incident - dragged by. Rocket complains each day that the minutes and hours seem to be stretching beyond reason, a sentiment that Shuri seems to share more with each passing day. The on-again-off-again radio silence around the globe probably doesn’t help this. Only scheduled, prerecorded broadcasts have been airing since the aforementioned event. Occasionally something new will break through, or there will be a shift in the dialogue. Manifests of the dead - or missing - pop up online, highlighted by reports of shifting crime rates and chaos as the world tries to find some form of structure with all the missing political heads. But as the dust settles, most of it is the same.

For Bruce, the time feels like it’s flying. 

He’s been keeping careful track of the time for years, always sure to have a clock in each room and a watch on his wrist and a calendar in his lab. It’s been like this most of his life really. Since he got roped into bodily babysitting Big Mean and Green, to be more accurate. Even being able to kind of track what the Hulk is doing, it’s become a necessity since then, needing to know the exact time and date so that he can try to fill in the blanks when he loses the spotlight for minutes or hours or days or years. That last one is sort of new, and sort of a problem. Not one he has had a lot of time to dwell on now but a problem nonetheless. In any case, if he isn’t keeping track of the time he’ll never have any way of knowing how long he’s been the Hulk. Or the Hulk has been him. There’s no good way to word that, he thinks, when they’re both trapped the way they are.

All of that said, he’s learned to manage his time very well over the years. There’s no telling when something will happen, if something will happen, to push him out of his own head. What time he does have he uses wisely. Efficiently. He has to. So it’s admittedly a little disheartening when every time he looks at the clock the hours have passed with no new news and little progress. Or they’ve lapsed into the next day and there’s nothing to show for it. Bruce wishes the time would slow down for him, like it has everyone else. 

There are a lot of things he’s wished for over the years, wishes for now. He used to wish he could disconnect himself from the Hulk. Used to wish he could drop off of the grid and use a new name and make another life for himself. Have a family, friends, a cat or a bird. Now he wishes the friends he did have weren’t scattered by the winds or taken away by some cosmic disaster. He wishes Tony were here, to distract him and provide insight and disprove all of the assumptions that he’s gone too. He kind of wishes, somewhere in the darker corners of his mind that he tries to avoid visiting nowadays, that the snap had taken him out instead of one of the others.

Not that wishing has ever gotten him anywhere. It didn’t change anything when he was a child. Didn’t change anything back when he could taste cool metal in his mouth and practically feel the gunpowder tickling his nose. Didn’t change anything a decade ago. Bruce knows it won’t change anything now either.

“Doctor Banner?” Across the room, the shrunken mass of gold and blue shifts to get his attention, flickers red in the corner of his eyesight. Hearing the disembodied voice of Vision while looking down at the grey and lifeless body he once had is a little disorienting. He has to force himself not to think about the fact that the other man - being? - is kind of technically dead. “You’ve been staring at the same page of notes for over ten minutes. Keeping eyes on the remains of my vessel is not going to make it sit up on the table. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was just...” Just letting himself get distracted from what he should be doing. Overthinking things he can’t do much about. The doctor heaves a sigh. “Doing nothing.”

“Perhaps a break would be good, assist in getting the gears turning.”

Bruce rubs the back of his neck and gives a tired smile. “I think I’ll pass.”

“I think he’s right.”

The light voice takes him totally by surprise. Whipping his head to the doorway, the brunette finds himself faced with the current... ruler of Wakanda? He’s pretty sure that’s what she’s doing now. The look on her face says she’s been there a while but he can’t recall even hearing the door open. She’s wearing a mix of gold and greys today, a loose top and shorts. She looks like she’s sweating, too. Working out some kinks in her new gear maybe? He knows she’s been experimenting with some Black Panther technology recently. Maybe she intends to take up the mantle, now that he brother is gone. Maybe she already has and they just don’t know it yet. It would be fitting. 

“You know.” Shuri is approaching him now, one finger tapping in the Kimoyo Beads situated on her wrist. They do a scan of the body laid out in the table, and whatever results they give don’t show on her expression. “My father used to tell me that in times of great tragedy locking yourself away could only do you more trouble than good.”

Averting his gaze back down to his notes, Bruce hums noncommittally. The young girl doesn’t budge, though. She steps closer, toward the top of the table where Vision’s head is. Her fingertips dance across the crater left in his forehead, an action she’s taken to each time she comes to inspect the damage and try to work. It’s a nice gesture, Bruce thinks. Gentle and almost reverent. She would have liked him, had she gotten more of a chance to know him before his untimely demise.

He isn’t really sure what to say in response. Bruce has never been the kind of man to keep a lot of company. People are distracting and unpredictable and stressful. Even after spending years getting his issues under control, he doesn’t exactly find himself searching for companions.

Finally, after too long of a pause, Bruce decides on: “He sounds like he was very wise.”

“But you don’t agree.” Shuri shoots back quickly, giving him a look that is far beyond her years. “My mother says grief is handled in many different ways. She would be out here telling him to shove off and leave people be, if he were here.”

Bruce chokes on a little bit of a laugh. It probably shouldn’t be funny. He tries to cover it unsuccessfully with a cough, but judging by the look of amusement on Shuri’s face she’s already caught it. He tries to look apologetic, hiding behind his hastily scrawled notes. There’s a moment, a couple seconds, where he wonders if it’s inappropriate to be talking so lightheartedly over what is essentially a dead body.

“I’ve never been much of a people person.” Bruce admits, shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I don’t mind to be alone.”

Shuri nods, as if she understands the sentiment. He’s not really sure she does but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you prefer it?”

“What?”

“Being alone.” She clarifies lightly, and Bruce frowns. “Just because you don’t mind being alone doesn’t mean you prefer it.”

“It depends. Some people are better company than others.”

“That’s not a real answer.” Shuri rolls her eyes at him but before he can respond she’s turning her back to him, heading for the door. “Come on, Kermit.”

Bruce wants to say something a little snarky in response, before the words make his mind drift to Tony and they die on his tongue anyway. “Where are we going?”

“Outside.” She looks back at him teasingly as they head toward the exit. “You know, sunshine. Clouds. Grass. Trees. Not to mention fresh, unfiltered air.”

“That sounds terrible.” Trying to keep himself as monotone as possible, the green eyed man shrugs his jacket on and neatly folds his notes to slide them into the inner pocket. “Is that what young people are into nowadays?”

Just ahead of him, already moving past the intricate inclining walkway and to the slot where the wall folds away to reveal a slotted door, Shuri lets out a laugh. The pale white light of the lab makes her umber skin glow, highlights the tired lines under her eyes and the tight line of her shoulders. It makes her look older she is, though that's probably to be expected under the circumstances.

The past month and a week has been full of unfortunate events, it's been hard on everyone. Beyond that, from what Bruce has heard at least, the past five years have taken their toll as well. Not just on the Avengers, but on all of their newfound allies. And potential allies. And strange newcomers in the form of talking animals.

Five years is a lot to miss, Bruce is realizing.

"It is, in fact, what most people are into." Slowing down, Shuri falls into step beside him as they start down the corridor. "You're more out of touch than the hundred year old men." She fumbles a step, turns to go down the next hall, and corrects herself. "Man."

The ache in her voice is undeniable. Bruce reaches up to pat her shoulder, reconsiders, and shoves his hands into his pockets instead. He has a feeling she wouldn't appreciate the pity, even if they are in the same boat. "Steve has had the advantage of everyone updating his list since he came out of the ice. Some of us are being forced to learn on our own, you know. He gets a cheat sheet."

"He was frozen for seventy years." She points out, wagging a finger at him. "A cheat sheet evens you out."

Their conversation is interrupted when the door ahead of them opens, the sun reaching out to temporarily render them blind and halt their progress. The warmth that follows it is surprisingly pleasant, heating up Bruce's cheeks and hands. A gust of wind ruffles his hair and pushes Shuri's clothes around playfully.

Blinking a few times to allow his eyes to adjust, the doctor raises a hand to cast a shadow over his face. Down the stairs stationed in the grass with an impressively sized hunk of metal is Rocket. The raccoon is flipping some levers and cursing, one small paw slamming into the side impatiently. Steve is standing off to the side, pinching the bridge of his nose as he attempts to reason with the creature. And a little ways from there is Thor, Okoye, and M'Baku doing... well, he isn't really sure what. Sparring, maybe? That seems like a safe bet, judging by the thousand watt grin the Asgardian is sporting and the sweat beading on the Wakandans’ skins.

"Colonel Rhodes has been delayed in joining us." In his moments of distraction the princess - ruler? Bruce isn't sure which to stick with - has already descended the steps and is eying a vibranium rod stuck into the ground.

This news isn't really surprising. Rhodey was supposed to return about a week and a half ago, with more news regarding the status of the U.S. government. This is the second time he's pushed his arrival back. President Ellis was not lucky enough to survive the snap, nor was the Vice President. Their cabinet and families are left picking up the pieces, struggling to find something to say to the country and fumbling in their attempts to find a solution to the state of disarray the world has been left in. Bruce doesn't really have high expectations for any of them.

"Fuckin' _finally!_ The tech you all have down here is practically ancient, you know, I've seen better pieces of equipment in the Kyln." Rocket is gesturing animatedly at the long range communications device he's been building. "There are better receivers in pubs on Xandar."

"That loses most of its significance when you take into consideration that I don't know what either of those are." Steve rubs the back of his neck, making a face.

Deciding to lend his support, Bruce steps up to the plate. "To be fair, none of us do."

"I do." Leaning into sight, the resident god raises his brows at them. "You just need to travel more."

"No, no." Bruce shoots him what he hopes is a stern look. "I've had enough interplanetary traveling for the next decade."

The raccoon practically sneers at him from a few feet away. "Uncultured _and_ boring." He tips his head to look at Thor, more sarcasm than bite for once. "These are really the Avengers you were gabbing about?"

"Alright, okay, we get it. You don’t like us." Steve raises a hand in defeat, ever the mediator, before giving the large contraption in front of him a suspicious look. "Aren't there more important topics on the table?"

"Right." Rocket grins, or Bruce is _pretty_ sure he's grinning but it is seriously hard to tell the difference from his usual condescending teeth baring, and pats the machine in front of him. "Like my golden finger for interstellar technology."

"I don't think that's the right term, golden finger.”

"Look, Mr. Patriotic. You can figure out the terms when _you_ build somethin' capable of reachin’ across the galaxy, picking up radio signals, lasers signals, has built in translators - which, by the way, insane that you Terrans haven't got them imbedded in you like the rest of us - catches private transmissions, satellite signals, has a built in booster." He pauses, gestures around again. "And, best of all, remote controlled self-destruct. It's nothing like faster than light neutrinophones but you name it, this baby can do it."

Bruce considers all of that, for a moment, expression twisting as he circles the machine. On the end opposite of where he started is a display no larger than one of his hands. The language on there in foreign to him, long strings of symbols with the occasional space or number thrown in. He does recognize coordinates in the upper left, though they certainly aren’t on Earth. The bottom is lined with dark red buttons, each marked with a number. He doesn’t touch it, he knows better than to invade Rocket’s creative space.

Thor, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care. He comes up beside the green eyed man and leans down, one large hard stretched to hit the first button. The machine whirs and shifts, rising up out of itself. It looks sort of like a spire. Bruce recognizes some of the equipment put into it from Shuri’s lab, Wakandan technology mixed and matched with whatever else was one hand to make a long range communications device. Not missing a beat, Rocket pushes by the doctor to swipe across the screen and huff.

When the metal stops moving and the gears stop turning there’s a light spray of static in their ears. Thor frowns down at the raccoon, looking thoroughly disappointed. “It’s stopped.”

“Or moved.” Shuri puts in. “That seems just as likely. Have you heard anything since this morning?”

“No. Rabbit has been diligently manning the stations since then.” Thor does the honors of pressing the second button and causing the metal to shift again. This time Rocket smacks his hand away and snaps his teeth at him, the blonde laughs in response. “Spare a few moments for repairs and modifications."

Raising one brow, Okoye takes this as her chance to step in. "What kind of repairs?"

"I overloaded _one_ part." Rocket snips back at them, already hunching over the screen again. "All it did was cause a small fire, it's not like I took out the whole west wing." Looking around, Bruce can see almost everyone wearing a grimace that matches his own. No one says anything, though. Probably for fear of dealing with another rage fueled outburst from the smaller creature and suffering through an extended monologue about how they could at least be grateful to have him around. "You cause a couple - okay, a _few_ \- small explosions and suddenly no one trusts you to fix your own shit. You know what - whatever, okay, fuck all of you. The point here is that _I_ found Quill."

There's a very long moment of silence. Thor seems to at least know who that is, but the unimpressed look on his face doesn't really say a lot. No one else shows any sign of recognizing the name. Or maybe it's a title? Bruce honestly has no clue. Not even a hint of a clue. Whoever or whatever Quill is, though, the news seems to be the highlight of the raccoon's day. Or week. Or month, probably. His eyes are lit up, staring at the machine on the ground as if it is his saving grace. It's kind of understandable, but the thought doesn't stub out the curious spark in his brain.

Eventually, Steve is the one to take the bait. "We should all be grateful for any help we can get, but would you mind telling us who, exactly, that is."

"What?" Rocket looks absolutely offended for a few seconds, before the expression fades into exasperation. "Right. You're all clueless, I keep forgetting. Don’t even know about the people out there savin’ your asses."

Before that can spur a new kind of argument, the god among them speaks up. "Starlord. One of the Guardians of the Galaxy. He is the puniest among them. Rabbit here is the captain of their ship."

" _You're_ the captain?" The words slip out before Bruce can stop them, paired with a snort.

"Of course I am." He puffs out his chest, looking far more amused than expected. As if there's some inside joke no one else is in on. "And I know my crew. He's the only person I know with taste this bad. His personal collection is garbage."

There's a quiet _click!_ from the machine, the speaker near the top crackling as it tries to make a connection. It screeches in protest for a moment and the the abhorrent noise is replaced by something familiar. Music. Bruce is, for a moment, mesmerized. _Cherry Bomb_ bursts through the speaker, a surprisingly upbeat tune for the moment. Bruce can't remember the last time he heard it. When did this song even first come out? The seventies? It shoves nostalgia through his veins and causes a laugh to bubble up in his throat and spill past his lips. It's all a little absurd.

"The Runaways?" Bruce puts a hand over his face and tries to stop the laughter. Steve, Thor, and Shuri look equal parts amused and confused, likely not even knowing the song. The other two Wakandans seem uninterested in the entire exchange. "You guard the whole _galaxy_ and you're still listening to the Runaways."

"No." Rocket fumbles his words for a moment and raises his nose indignantly. It's the first time he hasn't had something to say, a witty comeback kept on his tongue. The moment is satisfying while it lasts. "Quill does, because he hates all of us and wants to watch our eardrums bust. I know this is him. The signature matches the Benetar."

"The _Benetar?_ " This time Steve is the one rubbing at his mouth to hide a laugh. "I recognize that one."

Bruce, not for the first time during this conversation, begins to wonder if Rocket really was the captain. The argument isn't worth the never ending trouble it would bring, so he doesn't voice this thought. "I'm sensing a theme, here."

"That's not -" Rocket taps his digits on the screen of his contraption, claws catching the light with each movement. "Okay, laugh it up all you want. But they're closer than before."

"How can you tell?" Steve furrows his brow at them.

Rather unhelpfully, he responds. "I'm bouncing off of stations and spaceports."

"Our fur coated companion is like Mnemosyne." Thor points upward, as if he could somehow possibly be showing them what Rocket has connected to. "His knowledge on your cosmos and planets has been invaluable."

Shuri nods more to herself than them, raising her wrist to allow her Kimoyo Beads to scan the machinery, likely wirelessly transferring any information she wants or needs to herself. Distantly, Bruce reminds himself to ask her about how those work later. "We can't send anything out, but being able to receive any incoming transmissions could be useful."

The raccoon snorts, tail flicking. "Finally. A little appreciation and all it took was the end of the world."

"I thought Mnemosyne was a Greek goddess of memory." Okoye interjects, suddenly looking interested. "Daughter of Uranus and Gaia; mother of the nine Muses."

"Many of your Midgardian myths are rooted in truth." The blonde turns to face her, one hand rubbing at his newly shortened hair. "Mnemosyne was a Valkyrie, a master strategist. They say her memory was so great that she could recreate battles in moments."

She nods, hums. "She must have been an asset. How do you suppose the lore got mixed up?"

The Asgardian gets caught up in the retelling of some story regarding legends passing down to them and no one being able distinguish one from another. Bruce tunes them out in favor of stepping closer to the small mammal to look at the screens he's flicking through. He doesn't look particularly pleased by whatever it is he's seeing. He shakes his head and mumbles something to himself, nose wrinkling up. A few steps away Steve is squinting at them before his curiosity gets the best of him and he's peering over the doctor's shoulder to see what the fuss is about.

"They're near Kariteth." Rocket says, as if that means anything to either of them. "That doesn't make sense."

"Why?" Shuri looks up from her wrist finally, brows rising.

"It's a spaceport, closest to Klyntar." A pause, and he adds: "Andromeda Galaxy. You should at least know what that is. It's closer than Titan but way off course."

"Is there anything they could need from there?" Steve frowns as Rocket retreats from the machine to pace. "Anything of value?"

"No." And then he hesitates, looking at nothing for a minute before repeating himself. "No. Fuel, maybe, but they would have gone the extra clicks to hit Xandar."

He's leaving something out. It's obvious by the pacing, the irritated swishing of his tail. Bruce sighs. "Why _wouldn't_ they go to... Kariteth?"

"K-air-e-teth." Rocket corrects him carefully. "Klyntar is practically at war and the spaceport itself is full of lowlifes. That's sayin' a lot coming from me. I met Quill in a cell."

The look on Steve's face at that is hilarious. His lips twist and his brows tip downward, clearly trying to put a positive spin on the words in his head and trying not to make assumptions. Eventually he seems to give up on that, shaking his head and scratching at his beard as they all think this over. He mutters to himself, something about _different runs of life_ and _walking in their shoes_ and then _we got into plenty of trouble, too._ The few minutes of silence give him the chance to reflect on the state of things, of the weird out-of-his-own-skin sort of feeling that's been lingering since he blasted back to reality on Sakaar.

Tapping a foot on the ground, Shuri screws her eyes at the sky. "How long is the trip, from there?"

"A couple months, if they don't run into trouble. Maybe more if they've damaged the ship."

It sounds like a lifetime. Bruce's chest aches for these people he doesn't know. "So we wait."

"And prepare." Steve cuts in, crossing his arms. "We don't know what kind of news they could bring with them."

"Yes." Thor agrees, his smile traded in for a more stern expression. "Their trip from Titan to here could have afforded them a run in with Thanos."

"More importantly, they could bring us something not so...." Rocket grumbles, tipping his head toward the contraption still putting off music. "Outdated."

Steve tips his head back and laughs, and Bruce can't help but return it with the one bubbling up in his throat. He feels, for just a moment, like everything hasn't gotten so twisted.


	7. Frenetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without giving her any time to even begin explaining, the injured man perks up again. "Badoon?"
> 
> "Big, green, reptilian." She waves off his interest in the other lifeforms, going through various stages of preparation. "The Sovereign will be the ones to concern yourself with. If they attempt to board the Benetar you will shoot them."
> 
> Tony scoffs, looking up from his project so fast that he accidentally shocks himself. "What, you were just going to have me set up a tea part for them before?"
> 
> "You are intuitive." This is the closest to a compliment he's ever gotten from Nebula. He is practically swooning, not that she's turning around to appreciate it. "You would have figured it out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sorry this took so long! i tried to make this chapter longer because got promoted and haven’t had a lot of time to write but... i also did this chapter entirely from mobile, so it’s 8885 words of me struggling.

**_Richmond, Virginia_ **

_2018_

It’s quiet uptown. Natasha isn’t really used to the new feature of this old town.

The quiet. The unbearable silence spread thick over the airwaves like cream cheese on a bagel. It brings with it a laughable and unrealistic sense of peace.

There’s always been something going on somewhere. A fight, a world altering event, a laugh, some badly named organization crawling out if its early grave to boast of fake successes and situations. But now, in the aftermath of another one of those events that has changed life as the world knew it, there’s nothing. No major news, no press events, no younglings running through the streets kicking cans ( _or whatever it is that kids do for fun these days_ , she practically hears Steve’s voice clear as crystal, _there are very different definitions of 'fun' now_ ) or loud music on the radio. The most exciting thing she’s seen since leaving Wakanda was a group of men ransacking a local electronics store.

Not knowing what to do with the spare time - or the tight, anxious pit in her stomach - Natasha finds herself in Virginia. The modest town she’s decided to coop herself up in for now is a far cry from the bustle of New York or the entrancing expanse of Wakanda. But it’s familiar, easing her away from her thoughts if nothing else. She spent eight months undercover here for SHIELD, back before the Avengers Initiative and all of the chaos that followed her becoming a part of that dysfunctional family. It’s nothing exciting, nothing special, but it does well enough for a momentary getaway.  


_Getaway,_ Natasha rolls her eyes and scoffs at herself for the mental image that conjures. Saccharine families with two kids and a dog, with white picket fences around their beachfront vacation homes. It makes it sound like her exit from Wakanda was for some rest and relaxation featuring massage therapy and scuba diving off the coast.

She has to shake her head to rid herself of the train of thought. Those are never things she's dreamt of or deluded herself into thinking she could have or was meant for. She's not on a getaway, she's in Virginia. Crawling away from the rock everyone else has hidden under to try to accomplish something. It's not that she's bitter, she gets it, but Natasha has never been the kind of person to linger in one place and kick up her feet to sip coffee and draw up plans. She likes the be on the move, in a way.

Richmond is a ghost town. The Food Lion - she's shocked it's still here, was still running before everything, considering there are so few left in the states - has empty carts scattered around the lot and the front doors are ajar. Every business she comes across has darkened windows and _Closed_ signs on the doors. There are still cars abandoned on the streets, though it’s clear someone - probably local authorities, what’s left of them - has been making an effort to clear the roads. There’s a path wide enough for one car but no one seems to be taking advantage of it other than herself.

Hell, the streets are nearly deserted. Probably due to the damage on the other side of the town. A plane dropped out of the sky, another unforeseen consequence of people just disappearing in thin air, causing just as much physical damage to the area as emotional damage. Half of the town managed to get caught in the damage, all crushed buildings and smeared landscapes spotted with places of refuge. The wreckage has barely been touched as well, leaving shops collapsed and homes devastated.

The blonde steers her borrowed midsize Sedan around the bumper of a Malibu that isn’t quite outside of the white lines. The window on her side is rolled down, elbow balanced on the rim of the opening and her fist propping up her head. A rush of cold air invading the vehicle is enough to keep her awake, biting at the edges of her cheeks and pushing her hair around her face like a curtain. The cooler weather reminds her of the time of year, the upcoming holiday. Natasha spares a moment to think of Thanksgiving, looming over everyone like a sick joke. She turns the corner, thinks of Stark Tower and Pepper inviting them all to an open bar and buffet, of the year Thor came down a few days following the holiday and insisted they see what a real feast was like. She thinks of Steve the past year, struggling to bring the few of them he could together just to make sure everyone was safe and ultimately failing to collect more than just the two of them and Sam.  


Without warning and with a harsh crackling noise that makes her flinch, the vehicle jerking to the side momentarily and nearly catching the sidewalk, the radio in the car comes to life. She had forgotten it was on at all, soft static transitioning to someone clearing their throat. It tears her from her thoughts, a welcome relief from the memories and ‘what if’s raining down on her.  


_“A catastrophic event struck the globe, two months ago.”_ A distinctly female voice says, slow and careful. The radio crackles again, this time with a whine, as if whoever is broadcasting is too close to their microphone. The noise makes Natasha cringe, for just a brief moment missing the silence. _“Recent reports are starting to show the true extent of the damage across the globe - involving record breaking casualties and extensive damage to many cities.”_

Natasha wonders where the other person is broadcasting from. Somewhere close, more than likely. But whoever it is seems to be speaking to an audience and, well, there isn’t much of that here. It’s possible they’re using a booster, or bouncing off of any towers left running, but the equipment and resources required for that imply a strong hand. She puts a pin in that thought, she’ll come back to it when she leaves.

Taking a left, the blonde maneuvers her way toward the parking garage. The barrier for the entering side is still in place but the one in front of the exit is smashed and scattered on the cement. After a brief moment of consideration she backs the Sedan up and goes to the wrong side. The thick pieces of plastic from the ruined gate crackle under the tires of the car, reminiscent of one of those do-it-yourself welcome mats kids make parents in elementary school with cheap craft items. Then she takes the green vehicle she’s commandeered down, twisting around cars and the occasional abandoned personal possession. Briefly, she wonders about the stories behind the blue duffel bag by the big truck, the makeup bag haphazardly perching on a railing, and the child’s carseat tipped over in an empty parking space.  


_“Government officials have yet to disclose the cause of the Incident but it has been hinted that the events involve the Avengers and their previous cohorts more than we originally thought.”_

Of course. Natasha feels her lip curl in a sneer because, really, she knew it was coming. Their ragtag band of misfits is an easy scapegoat for something like this. That doesn’t mean it isn’t bullshit, because it is. Some of them have lived and breathed this life for at least a decade. _Had_ lived and breathed this life. She has to remind herself that they’re not all here. It’s easy to forget for a few moments. It makes guilt creep over her and she wears it in her stiff shoulders the same way a seasoned politician wears an ugly blazer. The faceless stranger on the radio prattles on, background noise for a few moments while her thoughts turn back to the unwilling treasures distributed along her path until she tunes back in.  


_“- most of them have been notably absent in the recent months. Hawkeye, previously assumed deceased or incarcerated, was spotted in New York. The War Ma - oh, my mistake - the Iron Patriot was in D.C. earlier today.”_ The radio cracks and fades the lower into the structure she goes. _“The Black Widow has even been seen on the East Coast. Some of the most notable faces of the group, however, remain unaccounted for. Captain America has been virtually nonexistent since the events at the Leipzig airport in Saxony. Iron Man himself, best known as Tony Stark, was last seen above New York involved in a confrontation involving unidentified... hostiles? The Man of Metal hasn't been seen since, and is being assumed deceased."  
_

Despite everything that's happened in the recent years, Natasha can practically her her heart splintering in her chest before it sinks to her stomach. They had seen the news footage and heard it from Bruce already, the object suspended over the city and a small group of heroes trying to fight off forces no one had recognized. As hard as she tries, it's impossible for her thoughts not to drift to the man in question.

 _"These events have hit close to home for all of us. Even those of us who never witnessed the acts of the Avengers can -"_ Tony, who helped build the Avengers, who played a part in pulling them all together by their red strings of fate and giving them a home.

 _"- all are feeling the depth of this loss. The toll this is taking on everyone from the states to the far islands off the coast of -"_ Tony, who should be preparing for a wedding and trying on ridiculously decorated and bedazzled suits with matching shoes and socks.

 _"- but the real question we're faced with? What now? The Avengers have disbanded and the Authority is denying us any information following -"_ Tony, who was the only one left in New York to defend them aside from a teenager who had no business playing hero and a couple tinkering magicians. _"- nothing to go off of, from here. This is the Rising Tide, taking over the airwaves and providing you with the only -"_

When she reaches the bottom of the building, section 3C according to the worn dark blue sign attached to one of the posts, the signal fizzles out. That’s probably for the best, she decides as she clicks the knob to turn it off. The woman doesn’t want to think about Clint and what he must be going through, or Tony potentially pulverized by the Titan they saw or a probable victim of the snap, or Steve pacing around Wakanda with Bruce, or Thor and the walking roadkill with their dead end ideas, or Wanda with her light accent and rich smiles, or any of the other friends they’ve lost. Thinking about them won’t change anything. It won’t bring anyone back. It won’t force a solution to spark in their brains and make everything suddenly mendable.

All it’s going to do is drag them all down and make rebuilding their lives harder. Natasha has been persistent in preaching this acceptance to herself and anyone who bothers to ask her opinion or insists on injecting false hopes into their conversations. Bruce had told her, shortly before she left him and their Wakandan refuge behind, that she was being just a little harsh. Realistic seems like a more appropriate word for it.  


After a moment of consideration she turns the key and slides it from the ignition, causing to car to give a mild whine at the unexpected end of its trip. The sound of the car door closing echoes through the parking garage, the keys singing as metal clinks against metal when she hooks them around one of her belt loops. Even her footfalls, typically almost undetectable, seem obnoxiously loud. The gentle thud of her boots against the cement grates on her nerves until she purposefully steps lighter. Heel, then toe. Heel, then toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

She repeats this movement until she reaches the wall ahead of the car. Barely visible against the shadows on the pale grey structure, there’s a patch of metal. Natasha rests her left thumb there until the cool metal has warmed to the same temperature as her skin. There’s a telling _click!_ prompting her to move her hand and the metal slides back and to the side to reveal a light blue panel. It flashes once before a light extends from the spot, taking in her appearance from her waist up. It blinks twice this time, the light shifting from blue to green.

“Romanoff.” She says, staring down the device as if it’s going to argue with her. “Level Six clearance.”

The silence is broken by a series of metallic noises, shifting and clanking until the metal panel slides to cover the light again. For a few moments Natasha is sure Fury - or whoever the public head of SHIELD is now, they've left it pretty vague recently and she’s not all that entangled there anymore - has revoked her access. She would be lying to say she isn’t a little offended at the idea.  


Before she has too much time to think on that and actually get offended, the corner of the wall eases back and slides to the side just enough to make room for one person to slide through. She slips through quickly and the wall slides back into place behind her. The materials making up the makeshift entryway grind against each other as they move, evidence of the age of the facility. Despite the offensive noise, Natasha eyes the SHIELD insignia at the end of the hall and feels some of the tightness leave her shoulders. To anyone else the thin hallways and locked doors might seem intimidating. For her it almost feels like coming home.

Much like the parking garage and the rest of the town, the facility is eerily still around her. Evacuated, after the crash? Abandoned, maybe? It wouldn’t be a huge shock for that to be the case. SHIELD has lost a lot in numbers in recent years and anyone who was left after the snap likely weighed their options and ducked out while no one was looking. While she doesn’t necessarily blame them, a part of her thinks Fury would have done it more justice in his time. Her footsteps bounce off of the walls and the sound of her breathing seems to do the same before falling back into her ears.  


The empty corridors seem to open up for her, widening themselves to welcome her after such a long time away. Natasha runs her fingertips along the raised insignia on the wall as she passes. The familiar space provides her with a sense of comfort she didn’t even realize she needed. As she wanders toward the command center - some number of hallways and four doors away - her thoughts stray to the past. Images of her and Clint laying low here flash across her mind. The man downing cup after cup of coffee while they reviewed footage in the control room. She remembers when their cover was blown and he ensured that she wasn’t riddled with bullet holes while they ran circles around the city to get them off of their trail. Dodging other agents in the streets. She remembers his uproar of laughter when they finally made it inside and realized she had lost a whole chunk of her hair in the scuffle. Without thinking about it, her hand comes up to move through her blonde locks and feel for the small patch where the hair never quite grew back right.  


The mission hadn't gone according to plan. Bad intel and a compromised escape route had led to her raving about the bald spot on her skull for weeks. A ghost of a fond smile twitches across her lips, a whisper of hope curls up in her chest. They had joked, for years after their extended stay in the facility, that this was where they would come to go dark. Not for the first time since then, Natasha hopes Clint remembers too. But when she finally reaches her destination and places her palm flat on the scanner, it's not her partner waiting behind the sliding door. There's no messy brunette hair or expressive blue eyes or lopsided grin and snarky comment to greet her.

"You missed him by about half a day." The man is seated facing one of the consoles, drenched in a pale blue light. She can't see his face but his voice makes her vascular organ crawl from her chest to the back of her mouth to keep her tonsils company. "To be frank I was expecting you a lot sooner, Agent Romanoff."

"The afterlife must not be exciting," as hard as she tries to fight it the words feel thick in her throat. "You had to come home to crash the end of the world?"

Her surprise companion gives a quiet, mirthless laugh as he pushes back the chair and turns to face her. The older man braces a hand on the console to push himself from the seat and Natasha notes that he looks worse for wear. Dark bags hang under his eyes and there are fading bruises across his hands and going from his collarbone to hide under his shirt. He looks thinner in the face, too, maybe due to stress maybe due to a lack of personal care. After a few beats of silence the initial shock gives way to disgruntled and slightly offended anger. It must show on her face, in the tightness of her lips and the set of her jaw, because the man offers a placating smile and a raise of his shoulders.

"I _was_ retired."

"That’s what they always say." Natasha drawls the words, brows pulling together. It takes her a moment to place the emotion burrowing into her chest. _Hurt._ "Who else knows?"

“Agent May, Maria Hill, Nick Fury, Director Mackenzie. But that was before.” Agent Phil Coulson drops his shoulders as he approaches, and he has the decency to let his expression twist with guilt. "We have a lot to catch up on."

He gestures to the round table near the center of the room, covered in papers with scribbled out information and thick block letters written over them, photos and charts held at the center. Natasha stays standing, planting her hands on the table as she leans to get a better view of his haul. Coulson joins her a moment later, digging a pen out of his pocket and pointing at one of the images closest to them. It looks to be taken from surveillance footage of the room they’re currently in, featuring a hooded man in black and gold hunched over one of the consoles. Beside it is another with the same man, hood pushed over his shoulders to reveal sloppily cut hair. Clint. He certainly doesn’t look good, or quite like himself, but it’s him.

”Barton has been compromised.” Coulson says shortly, rubbing at his bruised hand. For the first time, it occurs to the redhead that their missing associate might be responsible for the state of their old friend. “He’s heading to Kyoto. Tracking down a former affiliate of the Hand.”

The photo beside that is of a woman, hair tied back and one hand extended down to the pages of a book. She looks older than Natasha, but still very fit. On her hip is a long staff that looks like it has a latch near the middle. A hidden blade, maybe. Another shows the event in New York, probably taken from the news footage, a massive structure hovering above the city and one ugly motherfucker standing under it.

Most of the images follow the same vein, some including the Infinity Stones SHIELD had the luck of getting into their hands. The Tesseract, Vision. Coulson points out a few more to her, along with copies upon copies of files and data. A thicker stack of papers is pushed closer to her, labeled boldly at the top with TAHITI. Glancing over it, Natasha eyes the other agent in her peripheral as he gathers up a few papers that must belong together.

”Okay.” She says finally, after their mutual moment of taciturnity passes. “Let’s catch up, then.”

 **_The Andromeda Galaxy  
_ ** _2018_

“Okay.”

There’s a room near the back of the Benatar, tucked behind a large rotator. Tony thinks it must have been used for storage, there are nutrient packets, blankets, everyday essentials, and various other nonvaluables scattered throughout the drawers and cabinets. It’s far enough from everything else to ensure some privacy, unless his companion comes looking for him. Which... is unlikely. 

Nebula hasn’t shown much interest in him, aside from when he’s grating on her nerves or playfully dancing along the brink of death. To be fair, she hasn’t shown much interest in anything other than patricide, weapons, and piloting their ride. The cyborg probably doesn’t even have interests outside of that. Tony is willing to bet she has a hyperfocusing problem, and maybe that’s why she can’t spare a moment to think of anything outside of that box. This is not a point that would help his case, however, so he’s willing to keep it to himself.

Settled on top of the nearest surface, the face of Iron Man stares back at him before the opticals flicker with a pale blue light that floods the room and takes him in. Audio and video recordings won’t transmit to anywhere useful out in space, but there’s a bit of consolation in being able to record their time spent in the ship and track what they discover. A tiny whisper in the furthest parts of his brain says _if_ _they_ _don’t_ _make_ _it_ , at _least_ _something_ _will_.

“You would kill me, Pep, if you knew how I got this.” Tony laughs and takes a breath. In his hands is a small glass dish that, upon closer inspection, reveals a tiny metal seal keeping it shut. The small black organism inside has strectched to cover the side nearest his hand as if listening. “I couldn’t pass it up, you would understand.”

The dish vibrates lightly in his hand, the sensation similar to a laugh. He raises it toward his face to examine it up close. The light buzzing has stopped and Tony wonders if maybe the sleep deprivation and blood loss are causing him to hallucinate. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of belief. When he squints and gives it a suspicious look the thing inside flexes and widens to fill the entire container. He’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be able to do that.

”Or maybe you wouldn’t, but it was like... I knew it was important. Whatever _it_ is.” He grumbles, giving the mask a pointed stare. “I’m going to see how it interacts with the nanotech. It’s flexible, seems to be self sustaining. If it can work with the bots I might be able to use it to stabalize my injury and use the nanobots currently taking up residence in my chest - without paying rent, mind you, I should be charging them - to repair the suit. I’ll have to expose it to other elements first, try to figure out what it’s housing...”

The brunette trails off in mutters to himself as he turns the glass containment object in his hand and notes the way the creature inside shifts to accommodate. Eventually it seems to grow bored, sinking itself to one side and firmly rooting itself there no matter which way he rotates it. It seems resilient enough, incredibly capable. But he can’t shake the way Nebula reacted when their Haze had tried to point her to them. The outlaw certainly can’t be described as trustworthy, but it was easy enough to tell he and the luphomoid were on the same side.

 “Unfortunately,” he sighs as he hides his new friend away again. “I get the feeling that if I open this, Flubber is going to have a mind of its own and run out on me.”

Leaning back into the wall, Tony shifts his gaze to the large viewport to his right to take in the sight of space. It’s nice and the genius in him wants to explore and discover and learn, but the rest of him is sore and tired and maybe a little delirious. Having his feet planted in the dirt again would be nice. Not questioning whether or not his only companion is going to throw him into space each day would be nice.

”And as much as I would love to be Robin Williams - or even Fred MacMurray, if we’re going old school, and I think we are - it’s pretty clear I’ve been skipping a few workouts.” Tony holds up a hand, shaking his head. “I know, I _know_ , what would _Jaq_ say? Something profound and deeply disturbing enough to make me feel guilty down in my bones.”

The helmet’s brightened gaze doesn’t waver, the jaw doesn’t shift on its hinge to respond to him. The only response he gets is from the distant hum of some machine or another, presumably his alien companion roaming around.

Nebula cut the music a few hours ago, snipping something about the lack of extra resources and the unnecessary usage of power. It’s an unfortunate loss, but it’s worth it to keep breathing and get home. _Get_ _home_ , the thought has been going over and over in his head like a broken record since they got on this ship. Make it to the next station, don’t get killed in the homicidal version of Blue’s Clues, _get_ _home_.

Thinking past that is never good. In the past few months - he’s finally convinced his traveling companion to help him translate a few basic things into something understandable now, so he can keep track of the days - he’s at least learned that much. It all leads back to the same thing: everyone he’s cared for, piled up at the end of a rocky warzone like a bloody signature. Whispered accusations and harsh questions. A black hole opening in his chest, replacing the reactor that kept him alive and draining everything from him. Nothing.

The silence is broken by a harsh release of his breath. “Same time tomorrow?”

The phrase causes the light covering him to fade, the remnants of the Iron Man suit going dark. The brunette reaches up to scratch at his quickly overgrowing beard and then he turnes on his heel to exit the room. He’ll have to shave again, it’s decided. Maybe after he digs up something to eat and tears apart a few more weapons for parts...

”Stark!”

Rather abruptly, Tony is torn from his thoughts by the taller figure stalking toward him from the living quarters. The Luphomoid strikes an imposing figure, though he supposes it’s kind of hard not to when you’re laced with various metals and lethal objects. That doesn’t mean she has to prowl around looking all murder happy like she’s going to spontaneously change her mind about his company and release him into deep space, but to each their own. 

“Stark!”

At least she’s not calling him _puddle_ _scum_ or _squishy_ _weakling_ anymore, though, and he’s willing to take that as a win. Hell, he would be willing to risk saying that he’s starting to grow on her. He could write a book on this, when he gets back to New York. _Convincing_ _Aliens_ _of_ _Your_ _Worth_ _and_ _Fifty_ _Other_ _Tricks_ _I_ _Learned_ _in_ _Space_ by Tony Stark. That would be a best seller, probably. People will read anything these days.

”Why are you staring at me like one of the furry mutts you idolize on your throneworld.” Nebula has her brow drawn down, tapping a finger on one of her arms impatiently. “You did not listen to a single thing I said.”

Tony shrugs and edges past her to get to the small refrigeration unit. “I was in the middle of my next best idea.”

This seems to be acceptable for now, because she nods. “I will...” She pauses, grimacing as if her next words physically hurt her. “I will _need_ you to watch the Benatar.”

Before he can stop it, he snorts. Nebula, daughter of the Titan Thanos, master dueler, enhanced cyborg, needs _him_ to do something. She’s full of shit. And she’s doing a terrible job of hiding it. The muscles in her cheek are twitching like she can barely stop herself from retracting the statement purely due to pride.

”Oh, no, Liara, don’t flatter me.” He snaps the door shut, deciding on something in a light grey packaging that has the consistency of yogurt and the taste of carrot cake. It’s his favorite so far, not that he has many options. “You’re sneaking out on me in the night, like a bad husband.”

“We are low on fuel and supplies.” She says shortly, settling herself at the controls again and putting something in.

Tony mutters his next words around his food, free hand gesturing widely. “So ‘et me c’me w’th you. I can c’rry things.”

”Chew and swallow.” Big, dark eyes look over her shoulder at him. Almost chiding, but mostly annoyed. “I’m sure even you, one of the lowest of life forms, can do that.”

He swallows the last of his food before speaking this time, a little petulantly. ”You’re totally ignoring the point. I’m not going to be very helpful left here.”

“I am not. I was... taking the time to educate you properly, like your guardians failed to do.” She diverts her gaze quickly. “This is a central spaceport. We need to... lay low. Keep our ears down.”

”Heads down.” He corrects her airily. She grunts a response as he discards his trash in the waste and returns to his most recent abandoned project: a partially disassembled shock net. “If we’re going for discreet, I don’t think you’re going to hit the mark.”

“You stick out too much. Humans are uncommon in these circles. You will only be a nuisance.” She shrugs but the movement is jerky, unpracticed, and her voice is sharp. Tony wonders how many times she’s done it before. “You’ll stay. Keep the ship.”

Fishing out a small gear and a cone, Tony leans back and inspects the metal piece on his chest before turning to look at Nebula. She’s staring rather pointedly at a vertical series of numbers on the bottom left of her screen that he has recently learned just represent the date. Trying to look busy, to avoid him. He knows how to recognize that much.

He tries to ignore it and figure out some way to talk her into letting him follow. Focus on trying to make unfamiliar machinery match up with what he already has. But he can’t, it nibbles at the back of his brain and out of the corner of his eye, though, he can see her shifting and placing something in her arm, hears the familiar buzz of an ion blaster powering up. It reminds him of the noise the original Iron Man suit would emit when he first started it up, all heavy metal and artillery. For a second, a brief moment where his feet sink in the sand and his mouth feels dry and dirty, he’s teleported to Afghanistan.

“We’re going to be getting shot at, aren’t we.” He finally deadpans.

“Of course not.” Nebula says quickly, but her tone is tight and her posture is stiff. He thinks her gaze flicks to the side and then back to the controls, but it’s hard to tell.  


“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?” With a roll of his eyes, Tony turns his attention back to his work on the suit.

”No.” She says sharply, turning this time to face him better and blinking. “Am I?”

”Worse than Pinocchio.” He pops the ‘p’ obnoxiously.

Scowling, Nebula rolls her shoulders. “I don’t -“

”- understand that reference, I know.” Tony nods, once. “He’s a puppet.”

This doesn’t seem to get rid of the confusion, as her features only twist more. She manages to look a little offended through her confusion, lips pursed and posture stiff as she turns just enough to glare at him from the corner of her eyes. It’s one of her more common expressions, eagerly handed out when he gifts her with another nickname or starts to question her about hyposprays or Google Glass or VISORS.

“ _You_ are a puppet.” The cyborb mutters spitefully, reminiscent of a pouting child as she faces the controls and swipes something to the side. “I am not the one with a set of malleable bones and virtually unprotected brainstem.”

The ship goes quiet again, just for a few beats, as Tony considers all of the new questions he has. Another day, another list of queries for his Luphomoid companion.

Does Nebula think human bones are soft? Do all aliens think humans have soft bones? Is she simply referencing the fact that babies bones fuse together when they get older? Is she joking, maybe? Do most aliens have some kind of special protection for their brainstems? Or are they are in different places? Is she bringing it up simply as a vulnerable splot or is there something more important behind the statement? Something humans don’t know about yet, or maybe something more sinister? Is threatening his life going to be their ‘forever?’

He has tell himself that there will be time to unpack that one and get through the layers of it later.

“His nose grows when he lies.” Tony finally decides to say, disconnecting a train of charges and putting them off to the side. Their cases could be reduced for more nanobite replacement parts, the charges themselves a battery. “Who’s going to be shooting at us?”

Nebula says nothing, refusing to answer for long enough that he begins to wonder if she is really going to avoid the conversation indefinitely. “Sovereign, mostly. Hurctarians. Interdites.”

”Right.” When she doesn’t provide any further explanation or threaten him again, he continues probing. “Those are...?”

”The Sovereign are genetically engineered and wired for perfection. Golden morons. Hurctarians are given cybernetic implants on their skulls during childhood and are very... dry.”

”Dry?” Tony snorts. “Are you taste testing them? Making Hurct-Jerky?”

“Their skin flakes and is replaced over the period of their lunar cycle.” Nebula responds very matter-of-factly. “They require very little hydration and are rumored to enjoy dirt baths.” At the grimace she receives from Tony, she continues. “Interdites are... _mystics_ mostly. Yellow eyes, big ears, hue similar to my own. Their throneworld was rendered uninhabitable during war with the Badoon centuries ago, they frequent these places."

Without giving her any time to even begin explaining, the injured man perks up again. "Badoon?"

"Big, green, reptilian." She waves off his interest in the other lifeforms, going through various stages of preparation. "The Sovereign will be the ones to concern yourself with. If they attempt to board the Benetar you will shoot them."

Tony scoffs, looking up from his project so fast that he accidentally shocks himself. "What, you were just going to have me set up a tea part for them before?"

"You are intuitive." This is the closest to a compliment he's ever gotten from Nebula. He is practically swooning, not that she's turning around to appreciate it. "You would have figured it out."

 **_Somewhere  
_ ** _?_

There are a few rules Scott has learned to live by since he becoming an adult. If you can get away with it, it ~~might be worth it~~ still might not be worth it. Don’t ~~start~~ get involved in any fights you can’t win. The people you care about come before everything else. If you see something bad ~~run the other way~~ do something. Don’t believe everything you hear.

And rules he learned as a child. You shouldn’t lie. Sharing is caring. (This one, he found later in life was a funny excuse for light theft.) Admit when you’re wrong. Respect your elders. Don’t talk to strangers.

”How far away did you say you were?” Scott poses his question into the radio, giving the blue light a number of feet away his most suspicious look. “Not that I’m rushing you or anything, the view out here is uh... Something.”

Right on cue, one of the large beasts inhabiting the Quantum Realm makes a path overhead. And then, the communicator crackles to life with mirth. “ _I_ _didn’t_.”

“Well...” The tardigrade circles back, lingering over his still unnamed vehicle. “Are you going to?”

Whatever comes next is covered by static, an interruption in the signal that is bound to come when you’re not really in the world as you know it. It had happened when he was on with the Pyms, too, quickly enough that he was able to ignore it. This time it seems to last much longer. The static thickens until it becomes physical, thick under his tongue and buzzing around his fingers and numbing his cheeks.

The world shifts around him, from warm hues to cool ones. All the ice on the edges melts and drifts and blues go purple, the whites ombre to green. In the distance bubbles collide and combust, leaving fragments that spark when they touch the ground. The ground underneath his feet decays and goes dark before a light burns underneath and breeds color to the surface again. Stars collapse and batteries go dead and civilizations crumble and crawl up from the rubble and Scott wonders if he’s been here forever, if he’s going to be like this forever.

The static burns his ears. Scott feels like he can taste it near his tonsils, feels like all he’s ever heard is this blurred television cut signal static moving from one ear and making a path through his auriculars and around the hills and valleys of his brain to reach the other side.

“- _I_ _repeat_ , _this_ _is_ _Agent_ _Marvel_   _requesting_ _clearance_ _through_ _all_ _available_ _channels_.”

Ahead of him, the blue light blinks out of existence and then back a few feet closer. The echo of roaring waves in Scott’s head simmers down to the sound of a sink filling.

He puts his elbows onto the cracked dashboard of the Helicanter - because, really, he has to call it something - and lets his head hang while he reminds himself to breathe. It can’t have been more than a moment, a few minutes, but maybe this is what Janet meant when she said being here changes people. Maybe Quantum Entanglement has more to do with this realm digging a hole into your person than they thought. It might be good to compare notes when he gets back, if he remembers more of his experiencw this time.

”I don’t think you’re on the right frequency for that.” He manages finally, eyes squeezed shut.

” _You’re_ _back_.” Captain Marvel, as he knows her, sounds surprised. “ _Where_ _did_ _you_ _go_?” She asks.

Scott doesn’t know how to answer that, without getting into the specifics and that seems a little too heavy for this scenario. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

” _Now_ _that_ ,” she starts with a huff. “ _I_ _find_ _hard_ _to_ _believe_. _I_ _could_ _say_ _the_ _same_ _to_ _you_ , _about_ _where_ _I’ve_ _been_.”

”Yeah?” He snorts and lifts his head, watches the blue light drift around him and away again as the masses in the distance mold into new forms. “Try me.”

_**Wakanda  
** 2018_

The end of the world has taught people to appreciate the little things. The picturesque sight of orange and red hues colliding with the green outline of trees as the sun drops away. Warm coffee at dawn, when the city starts to wake up. The sounds of what should be a city in the day, bustling and full of life. Moments bursting at the seams with laughter and jokes and the company of another person. 

There are a lot of things that no one can find time to appreciate, now. Things that you can’t find in the ashes of Earth. 

Which is how Rocket finds himself on the outer edges of Shuri’s home they’ve invaded, in a room with tall glass ceilings and windows that never end. It’s filled with greenery. Trees and bushes and different grasses and weeds, flowers and snapping plants and vines crawling along one of the would-be walls. In the center of the room is an extraordinarily tall tree. It climbs past the ceiling, shifting through a carefully crafted gap and providing a small amount of shade to the area. Beyond that is a more colorful variety of plantlife, scattered along the walkways and hanging from the ceilings and windows.

The greenery looks like it’s hardly been touched since the snap, aside from a few carefully maintained plants and herbs. The raccoon wonders if whoever cared for it before died in the snap or simply lost their desire to care for it after losing everything else. It’s well enough for him, though. He can scale the trees and get away from most people. The hideaway certainly isn’t home, but Rocket would be lying if he said it doesn’t calm his nerves.

“Rabbit!”

Of course, he’s learning very quickly that Wakanda full of enhanced humans and god men is full of as many disruptions as space was with the Guardians running around it.

Rocket rolls on the branch he’s decided to occupy, staring up at the leaves and the light filtering through them. Thor is the only one plucky enough to keep chasing him down. He has some kind of Rocket Radar, tracking him down in record time every day. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the hulking blonde approaching, stepping over pots and occasionally stopping to whisper conspiratorially to some of the plants. The sight of his form towering over the plants as he bends down to encouragingly pat them is kind of funny.

It isn’t that he dislikes Thor, quite the opposite really. But having more than ten minutes of peace might be nice.

”Alright, Rabbit, it is time to come down.” The aforementioned man clears his throat. “I can see your tail, you can no longer pretend you are not up there.”

The voice reaching him from the base of the tree causes him to startle. He hadn’t even noticed him getting closer. Apparently the god _can_ be stealthy when he wants to be. Heaving a long sigh, the raccoon rolls to the side and off of the branch. His vest catches on the bark on the way, but it’s withstood worse. At the halfway mark, Rocket curls his claws into a branch to stop again. From there it’s an easy enough drop, and his claws make a distinct _click!_  when he hits the floor. 

“How’d ya know I was up there?” He asks finally, looking up at his companion.

Giving him a thousand watt smile, the short haired man gestures to a vibrant yellow plant. “The fig told me.”

”Bullshit.” Rocket snipes, teeth clacking together. “The _fig_ told you. You have a special course on talking to all the terran flora, too?”

”Maybe.” Thor replies cheekily.

Rocket huffs, pushing at the Asgardian’s leg as he passes. He takes the action in stride, keeping step with the raccoon easily. The axe on his hip swings as he walks, wood and metal and the last remnants of his sentient tree-like friend.

The first few weeks, he had waited for something to sprout from the wood intricately wound around the joint axe-hammer. He had expected Groot to spring up from the end with a recognizable shimmy, as if nothing ever happened. But Stormbreaker never budged, never showed any signs of new life. Whatever Asgardian magic has been woven into the Uru metal has made it something else entirely, there’s no pieces left of his friend for him to re-spawn from.

“What now?” Rocket asks blandly. “The mint give you a great new recipe for me to try? Did the lilacs tell you a secret? No, wait, I’m betting the dandelions gave you some tips on interstellar communications.”

”Don’t be outlandish, Rabbit.” Thor shakes his head. “Weeds aren’t advanced enough to converse with us.”

He’s full of _shit._ Rocket knows it, he knows it, the entirety of Wakanda probably knows it with how long they've been there. Over the past few months - _three months, one week, six days_ \- the rebel king has been testing all of them. Pretending to be ignorant to things he definitely knows about, like wormholes. Pretending to know all about things he's entirely ignorant of, like Earth's technology and more specifically how email works. And now, pretending to communicate with the local flora and fauna. Or... maybe pretending that the only kind he can't talk to is weeds. Rocket isn't sure which one is more likely.

"Unfortunately." Rocket sighs eventually, eying the plant life suspiciously as they pass. "They've probably got more to talk about than any of you."

"I find that unlikely." The large man laughs, but the tone of his words isn't quite so sunny. "They have remarkably short lifespans in comparison to even yours, but especially my own."

"And yet, I'm sure they could find something more interesting to talk about."

Shaking his head, Thor begins to lead the way through the winding halls of the palace. "Okay, my friend, I will give you interesting. You have an assignment.”

”Assigment?” Rocket sneers the word, squinting up his companion. “I don’t remember agreein’ to being an underling for your band of merry bastards.”

”Fine.” Thor shrugs amicably. “Then I would ask you to do me a favor.”

Normally, the raccoon would demand a reward. But desperate times... “Alright.”

”I would ask that you travel to our compound with Steven -“

”- who the hell is _Steven_?” Rockets snaps indignantly.

The blonde frowns, tries again. ”Captain America -“

"-  _Captain Do-Good_?" Rocket spits, fur bristling, as he tries to restrain himself. “You're sendin' me to the other side of the planet with _that_ guy? Seriously?"

"I assure you, Steven is an ideal traveling companion.” Thor nods to him, for all intents and purposes the picture of reassuring.

The conversation is interrupted by a sigh and a tight, tired voice. ”He also has superb hearing.”

Just down the hall a few doors, someone is waiting for them. Tall, blonde, built similar to the Asgardian aside from his height and a slight weight difference. The original Avengers is frowning at them, expression on the borderline of offense. Rocket, determined to ignore the social blunder he’s sure he is currently enduring, strides right past him.

Both of the humans follow him into the room, the door shutting with a nearly silent _shhck_! behind them. If he were more informed of Earth, and the normal interactions between species here, Rocket would make some kind of joke about being on the opposite end of the leash. That kind of thing is right up his alley, a little harsh and properly humiliating with just a dash of self deprecation around the corner. 

“None of us know what Tony was researching before the attack.” Steve says as they’re getting settled, the Asgardian perching on a stool that certainly doesn’t look meant to bear his weight and the raccoon clawing his way onto a countertop.

”I’m sorry, but not really,” Rocket chortles as he seats himself. “Are you saying one _single_  person from your planet was capable of comin’ up with something better than the _entire_ galaxy?”

”No.” The man out of time grimaces.

”He -“ Rocket waves to Thor with one paw and the indicated man waves, “- has a Thanos-oriented-redemption-fueled battle axe.”

The superhuman drops his shoulders and seems to be debating with himself, the corners of his eyes creased and jaw set. Whatever conclusion he’s coming to doesn’t look to be positive. The other man in the room looks to be deep in thought, staring past the beige cabinets and into something no one else can see. All the raccoon sees is the two of them, looking less present than he’s ever seen anyone in a moment like this. And that’s a lot, considering who he’s been partnered with recently.

“He’s right.” Just as Rocket is puffing up with delight at the positive recognition, Thor continues. “Stark had been preparing for this since Ultron.”

“Wanda never told us what she showed him.” Steve interjects, brows high on his forehead.

”That does not mean the results of whatever he prepared for could not be useful.”

The two go quiet, exchanging a look. Rocket waits, confused and a little irritated at being out of the loop. He’s not getting something, obviously. There’s some backstory, some context, he’s missing here. It’s like he has half of a puzzle, but mostly the outside edges. And the more they look at each other, the further back his ears fall until he’s pulling his lips back in a scowl. 

He lets the silence drag, his impatience causing him to dig his claws across the stone of the countertop. The more he waits, the more apparent it becomes that there isn’t going to be a long winded explanation coming up unless he digs for one. Unfortunately, Rocket doesn’t care to do that. Any attempts at story time this far have only agitated him, and it wouldn’t be surprising for this to end the same way. So he’ll wait, instead. Let the two humanoid figures in the room hold their nonverbal conversation until they remember they’re not alone.

”S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to build containment cubes, like the Tesseract.” Steve says after what feels like centuries. “That was their plan for the Mind Stone, the scepter, until von Strucker stole it.”

”You think he would attempt the same.” Thor returns, voice even but expression concerned.

Taking a breath, the poster-child for righteousness nods. “Vision was a success.”

Isn’t that the disembodied voice in the lab? Vision... That sounds right, but with all the new and unfamiliar faces Rocket can’t be sure.

”Vision and his body were more than a triumph of Stark.” The taller man points out, cocking his head to the side. “There were many hands in that pot.”

Speaking of hands in the pot, the raccoon shuffles his way across the counter until he can reach one of the little round storage pods balanced on the surface. He’s been swiping them from every room he can find, partially for the novelty of having a thousand perfect spheres that don’t roll and partially for the goods inside. Sometimes it’s books or electronics, handmade items, but most often they’re filled with snacks and Rocket considers that a win-win. This one in particular is home to cookies that smell like ginger and give a satisfying _snap_! when he halves them. 

“Everything with Ultron would have been stepping stones for this.” Steve says firmly, already convinced.

Apparently that’s all it takes because the Asgardian nods and rises. ”When will you leave?”

”In the morning.”

”Hold up.” Rocket snaps another cookie in half, one paw in the air as if to hit ‘pause’ on the conversation. “Did I agree to go anywhere? What do _I_ get out of this?”

First to the draw is Thor. “The chance to explore a new planet and to gain new experiences?”

“The satisfaction of making literally any amount of effort to do something?”

”No, that doesn’t sound right.” Rocket taps a claw on his treat before popping it into his mouth and crunching it between his canines obnoxiously. “Access to and first call on everything.”

”Everything?” Steve grimaces again, clearly unsure, and looks to the other blonde for help.

“Everything.” Rocket agrees, trying and failing to put a whole cookie in his maw before he gives up and breaks that one too. “I’m talkin’ potted plants, engineered appendages, mechanics, wiring, food. Definitely the food.”

The human looks around, another obvious cry for assistance from their Asgardian companion. All he receives in response is a halfhearted shrug and a lopsided frown to say ‘ _we_ _don’t_ _have_ _a_ _lot_ _of_   _other_   _options_.’ Rocket gets it. If someone were pawing at all of their belongings on the ship and taking what they please, he certainly wouldn’t take kindly to it either. But, judging from what he’s heard so far, the missing mechanic isn’t going to be needing the equipment any time soon. It’s unlikely, if not impossible, that he’s survived any confrontation woth Thanos or his children. Man of Metal or not, there are limits to what one human can do. And if he isn’t going to be around to make use of his things, well, there’s no point in letting it go to waste.

Flicking his tail, the raccoon lifts his shoulders at Steve and tries again. “Fair’s fair.”

”Zero six hundred, feet off the ground.” The captain says finally, rubbing a hand on his cheek, and Rocket has to force himself not to inflate at the victory. “Have everything you need ready by then.”

”Worry about yourself, _Cap_.” He taps a claw on the countertop, baring his teeth in a wide grin. “I’m not the one who has to pack my luggage.”


	8. Stimulating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ”Want to have a blowout?” Tony queries when she glances at her escape route.
> 
> Nebula laughs, just a few short seconds where they’re nothing more than people enjoying their time while they have it. “At least I will say I did not die or boredom.”
> 
> If this were an eighties or nineties movie or television ad, he thinks, it would be the perfect time for one of those record scratch - freeze frame - that’s me, Tony Stark. You’re probably wondering how I got here...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took forever and i don't know how many words it is but uh... we're picking up pace here.

**_Wakanda  
_ ** _2018_

Shuri has made plenty of bad decisions in her life. Replacing her brother’s soap with a blue skin coloring gel that she convinced him was permanent. Adding the wrong compound to an experiment and catching a new dress on fire. Neglecting her school related studies in favor of enhancing technology. Missing important events because she lost track of the time in the laboratory. Arranging a party for her father’s birthday and telling everyone including their family the wrong location as a prank. And now, staring at the teeth shaped necklace that she knows is a perfect fit for her neck and wondering what it will be like to wear it.

At first it had been for a joke. She was going to impersonate T’Challa for Halloween, strut around in the dark suit and flex vibranium claws for the sake of good fun. It was going to be hilarious, kicking his ass with her tech under his superhero identity. And now, it’s not. There’s nothing funny about looking at the nude necklace and knowing that the Black Panther - or, the most recent one - is out of commission. There’s nothing funny about the heaviness in her chest or the burn in her eyes as she looks at the garment.

Five months. That’s how long it’s been since the Titan snapped his fingers and the universe collapsed around his hand. Almost half a year. And they’ve gotten no farther than when she first managed to piece Vision, what was left of his mind at least, back together and house him in the lab. He says he doesn’t mind and Thor says progress takes patience and Bruce, well, he doesn’t say much of anything either way. Shuri thinks that’s for himself as well as them, not raising false hopes or shutting what’s left of them down. None of it seems right, or fair, but that’s the way things are now and there isn’t much to be done about it.

“I hate to interrupt,” comes the gentle voice of the aforementioned dead man, his light form flashing as it rotates a few feet away. “But you look like you could use a break.”

“I should have taken the coddling out of your code.” She sighs, shaking her head and retreating from the suit.

“It’s not coddling.” Vision sounds a little affronted. “You haven’t left the lab in eighteen hours.”

At that, Shuri scoffs. Eighteen hours is nothing. Her record is three days. “I don’t need to leave the lab.” She points out. “I can have food delivered, there’s a restroom installed in the hall, a shower in the decontamination unit -“

Before she can get any farther into her what else could a girl want speech, Vision interrupts. “I can assure you that I have heard all of these arguments before, and you are making an incredibly valid point, omitting the fact that you’ve mentioned nothing in the way of adequate sleeping situations here. But there are things outside of this lab - not consisting of things the average human needs to simply keep functioning - that are beneficial to standard mental health...”

That’s around where Shuri tunes him out. She knows what he’s going to say already, they’ve had this conversation a thousand times it feels like. Each time has ended with him nudging and prodding until she’s left the lab to stew in her room or outside for a few hours. This time, she is determined to ignore him. She’s finally on the verge of.... something. She isn’t exactly sure what, but something, surely.

She can feel it in her fingertips, buzzing and sparking every time she picks up a tablet or tunes into the overhead. Bits and pieces of scattered frequencies, abnormalities near Los Angeles, and the occasional hum of questionable tunes outside.

“If you're going to ignore me, the least you could do is hum or nod along." The new voice makes Shuri's head whip up, big umber eyes blinking rapidly when she finds herself faced with the Queen Mother. Her long white hair is hidden behind a structured grey hat, matched perfectly to the long sleeved gown she has on. Her expression is serious but her tone is soft, russet eyes warm with fondness. "Ah, now I have your attention."

Shuri has the decency to look embarrassed, but she approaches her mother with an apologetic smile. "Mama, I was -"

"No. Don't tell me." Ramonda raises a hand to stop her before placing it on the younger girl's elbow to pull her into a soft embrace in greeting. When she pulls back and releases her youngest, she looks around thoughtfully. Her gaze lingers on the tangled mess of lights suspended and silently shifting nearby before moving to the necklace-wearing mannequin and updated vibranium gauntlets.  "You've been busy."

"I've been busy since I learned how to walk."

"You don't need to tell me that."

The two sepia skinned women share a laugh, one of those brief moments of relief following the end of the world. It takes some of the tension from Romanda's shoulders, softens the lines of worry and grief at the edges of her lips and eyes. Losing T'Chaka and T'Challa in such a short span of time, both at the hands of deluded men, has left the Queen Mother worse off than her daughter has ever seen her. Even when they were exiled, her age never showed as well as it does now. The years look to be taking their toll, finally.

Keeping her smile and trying to preserve the lightened mood as well, Shuri lays a hand on her mother's shoulder to guide her to one of the tables. Shimmying onto one of the tall, slender stools, she gestures at the other to encourage her mother to make herself comfortable. She takes the cue, though her movements are considerably more fluid and graceful. The teenager hasn't quite mastered that part of the role, and she's a little jealous of the ease with which her mother moves. Every movement seems purposeful and gentle, smooth and careful. It can be hard to apply any of these to Shuri consistently. Typically it's more along the line of tumultuous, excited, sharp, and wild. Even with her size taken into consideration, she has a hard time keeping away from being a bull in a china shop.

"Captain Rogers departed three weeks ago." Romanda pauses, making a rare face of distaste. "Along with our feral companion."

"Rocket." Shuri corrects her, delighting in the face her mother makes again. It's no secret she doesn't exactly approve of the loud, foul-mouthed raccoon who was sharing their home. "It has been much quieter without them."

"I wouldn't exactly say that." This time her red painted lips quirk upward rather affectionately. It's obvious she's referring to Thor and his antics, consistently coming around to arrange group events.  She taps a finger on the table, as if she has something to say and she can't figure out how. "Doctor Banner is asleep outside." She says finally, instead. "We thought he looked too peaceful to move him."

"Mama!" The younger of them tries to look reproachful, but mostly she's just entertained. It's nice not to be the one left at the dining table or in the gardens because of an impromptu nap. "You did not leave him out there."

Ramonda hums conspiratorially. "Okoye agreed with me." When her offspring goes to sigh, she interrupts. "As well as Nakia."

They must have been outside training, Shuri realizes. What remains of the Dora Milaje have been quiet and inactive in the past four months, each mourning for their comrades. Their families. For their King. The general herself had enough to deal with before, with W'Kabi's exile scheduled. Nakia only returned two weeks ago, covered in such a think layer of dirt and grime she seemed to have carved her way out of her own grave. She must have joined them in their attempts at setting some kind of routine again. Something normal.

As the thought crosses her mind, it causes her blood to run cold. For the first time in months, the teenage genius hits a wall. The idea that things could - are, _will_ \- eventually have to go back to normal is terrifying. It implies that people are giving up. That they're forgetting what things are supposed to be like. That they've accepted this new life, whatever it's supposed to be. Accepted that one single Barney-adjacent alien could simply walk into their lives and demolish them with no consequences.

Which is ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. She's just _now_ onto something and they're only just starting to decipher the vague logs and chicken scratch Tony Stark has left behind. This is the exact opposite of a good time to fall back on normalcy and divert their focus from the end goal.

She's been quiet too long. Shuri realizes it when her mother's face tilts with worry, eyes searching her features for some hint at what gears are turning in her head. She forces a smile as her mind whirs back into work. She knows it isn't very convincing, she can feel the tightness in pull of her lips and the way her eyebrow twitches and quirks. Her face has always been too open, easy to read. At least T'Challa was capable of keeping a straight face (usually) when he needed to.

"We can't leave him out there all day," the girl with the braided hair huffs, eyes twinkling with a joke as she looks out of one of the windows. "His delicate porcelain skin isn't used to the sunlight."

This gets a real laugh from Romanda, and for the first time in a long time the lines by her eyes are causes by joy as opposed to worry. "You're right." She concedes. "A few more moments couldn't hurt his complexion, though."

Another joke is on the tip of her tongue, something about how if he gets too tan he'll turn orange during his transitions to the Hulk. But that, along with the breakaway from panic, is lost when the door to the door slides to reveal a rumpled looking Bruce barreling into the lab. The man must have ran from where he fell asleep because his hair has been pushed back from the wind and his chest is heaving. His neck and cheeks are tinted maroon from his exposure to the sun and his clothes are wrinkled. Green eyes flash around the room from Shuri to Vision to Ramonda and back before he seems to catch his breath. The sight would be laughable, if not for the rather frantic look to him.

"We have a, uh, situation." In the distance, a faint, high pitched buzz can be heard. Any bit of humor left in the room fades with his words. "I swear, I didn't touch anything."

 **_The Andromeda Galaxy  
_ ** _2023_

Blue. Everything is tinted blue. Teal? It might be closer to teal. It’s hard to remember a time when it wasn’t like this, Tony feels like he’s been suspended in one day for years. The monitors shut down too long ago back to really track the day or year anymore.

“We really did it this time, Pep.” Across from him, the Iron Man helmet remains unresponsive. He blinks at it, as if expecting a response. “You know what I miss the most?” Again, nothing. “Central heating. I’d sell my liver for a hand warmer at this point.”

Across the room, the door shifts. The automatic systems shut down years ago, so the metal screeches in protest when it’s manually opened. It’s certainly not a welcome noise, but he’s more or less gotten used to it. Without knocking or otherwise announcing herself, Nebula proceeds to yank the door open and scowl at it as if it went out if its way to block her path. After a brief moment of consideration, she narrows the look on him.

The first time she had happened upon him, it was a mistake. She was equal parts bewildered and amused. He was mostly horrified, a little embarrassed over being caught making recordings for people who would likely never hear them. 

“Still talking to yourself?” She snipes as she approaches, maneuvering around the table to bend at the waist and come face fo face with his helmet. She peers into the eyes, unbothered by the blue light directed into her vision. “How does this inferior bundle of spare parts still function?”

”I’ve been using the leftover Gix cores and Kree pellets as a short term power source.” Tony explains easily as she continues her staring contest with an inanimate object. “I’m not talking to myself, either. I’m keeping a record. It’s smart.”

Instead of praising him, Nebula stands and rolls her shoulders as she points out, “It’s narcissistic.”

“ _You’re_ calling _me_ a narcissist?” He snorts. “When someone finds this and wants to know what happened for historical purposes, I’m telling them to leave you behind.”

For the first time, there’s something new in the furrow of Nebula’s brow and the tight set of her jaw. He can’t place it until she looks away and steps almost past him, stopping shoulder-to-shoulder facing the opposite direction to look out of the wide observatory window behind him. Pity. Sympathy. The fact that she’s feeling empathetic should warm his heart and endear him to her. She doesn’t seem to care for or like anything, so the gesture is either fueled by fondness or respect.

All it does it make his cheeks burn and his chest hollow. Entertaining his delusions of rescue must be in the past, now. Tony is a little surprised she’s done it for this long, but that’s no comfort to him. 

“I didn’t know we had any leftover parts.” Nebula remarks finally.

He shrugs, gaze still pinned to the mask recording their conversation. “What I didn’t burn out trying to get up enough power for a jump. Only enough for a few minutes at a time.”

She nods, a nonverbal _that’s_ _good_ and glances over her shoulder as if to ensure it really is capturing what she’s about to say. “One month.”

”What?” Tony tilts his head to look up at her.

”That is roughly what we have left to sustain you physically if we continue at our current rate.” Nebula pauses, still looking at the stars as opposed to him. “Oxygen is... trickier.”

Processing that, Tony hums noncommittally. “Okay.”

”The repair you did on the convertor has allowed it to operate at minimal levels but we are going to lose all power.” Her tone is even, factual. Disconnected. “Our transfer of the power cores is not going to hold.”

Again, Tony gives a hum of acknowledgement. He looks at his hands, at the rigid scars across his palm from trying to manhandle an active power core  while Nebula stuck her metal hand into the sparking mess of machinery to manually connect it. He knows her flesh hand matches his from their haste to get everything situated. It’s one of the good memories from their disasted laden trip. Afterward they had collapsed into separate heaps on the floor, waiting anxiously as the lights flickered and the colors shifted. The Luphomoid had slapped him on the back with her good hand and given him a backhanded comment on how _being_ _a_ _terran_ _doesn’t_ _make_ _you_ _totally_ _brainless_.

”You hear that?” Tony inputs eventually, voice biting and eyes tired as he turns them to the reminder of who he was. “We’re in the endgame now.”

While the scathing callback to Strange and his apparent inability to make use of a magic stone that allows you to view the future is minutely funny for him, Nebula doesn’t seem amused. The taller of them gives him a disdainful look. The sigh she lets out makes it seem like his comment has put the weight of the world on her shoulders. As much as she looks like she wants to, she refrains from wrapping her fingers around his shoulders and shaking him until all of his organs clatter around inside his chest cavity. For what it’s worth, the dinged helmet doesn’t laugh either. Which is fine, anyway. It was more for his individual benefit than theirs as a group.

As the silence engulfs them again, a cold hand finds a home on Tony’s shoulder. His alien companion still isn’t looking at him, but her lips are shaped into a frown and her shoulders are curves forward. Physical contact is rare for the pair. Even with all the time they’ve spent sitting around together in silence or not.

He cherishes it, careful not to lean into her touch and pushing off the desire to put his hand over the blue one gently perched on his person. It would scare her off, he’s sure. Nebula is already looking a little jittery from the interaction. Her touch is so light she might as well have her appendage hovering over his shirt. The moment lasts longer than he expected, and she doesn’t abscond immediately.

”Want to have a blowout?” Tony queries when she glances at her escape route.

Nebula laughs, just a few short seconds where they’re nothing more than people enjoying their time while they have it. “At least I will say I did not die or boredom.”

If this were an eighties or nineties movie or television ad, he thinks, it would be the perfect time for one of those _record scratch_ \- freeze frame - _that’s_ _me_ , _Tony_ _Stark_. _You’re_ _probably_ _wondering_ how _I_ _got_ _here_...

 _ **The Andromeda Galaxy**_  
_2018_

Escaping the central spaceport is easy. Tony has to shoot at a small group of disturbingly gold individuals, but most of the conflict in bypassed when Nebula drops a Vrellnexian grenade onto the floor and shoots at it. The resulting explosion of fumes is enough to make him gag even as the boarding door closes and the Luphomoid hauls ass out of the landing bay. She manages to sideswipe a few ships on their way, effectively buying them enough time and distraction to make a decent getaway. The adventure has their blood pumping, hearts racing, brains running on overtime as they try to come down from the high of their theft and rather loud escape.

"That was good." Nebula comments casually once they've both settled, slumping a little in their seats. Her human companion chokes on a laugh, one hand over his face. She gives him a withering look. "What? It was."

Tony point out, "I'm pretty sure everyone in the next galaxy over caught the ruckus we made back there."

"We got what we came for with few casualties." She tests out a shrug, and Tony notes that she's getting better at it. Maybe she’s been practicing, staring at her reflection in the brief moments he finds the refuge of sleep. "If no one catches us, it does not matter how loud we are."

The resident terran chooses not to focus on the _few_ part of that. He doesn't really need to know how many people - innocent or otherwise - risked stepping in her path and losing their life. At least he can admit she's right. They got what they needed and got out without damage to themselves or their mode of transportation, which is a silver lining in and of itself. It had almost seemed like just the right time for the universe to act aggressively against them again.

Just as they're getting settled in, Nebula navigating the ship and Tony slumped on the floor somewhere behind her fiddling with the remnants of his suit and some of the more familiar technology on board, the ship rattles ominously.

At first it's easily dismissed as cutting corners too close to the orbit of one of the nearby planets, and Nebula corrects the Benatar to make up for it. When the vessel shakes again, this time a little more violently, she pulls up the rear display. Nothing. The vast planes of space are as empty as ever. She's almost ready to dismiss it as a fluke when it happens again, this time enough to jostle both of them and set a bright yellow light flashing. One of the displays flashes, bringing up a side view of the ship with a large tank on the button singled out in orange.

” _Secondary_ _fuel_ _tank_ _impaired_.”

As he approaches, Tony can hear his alien companion cursing about _those fuel tanks were just filled_ and _reserves_ as she flips a few switches and abpruptly swings the ship to do a barrel roll. The maneuver reveals a smaller, darker ship underneath of them equipped with a shocking number of weapons. With a little difficulty from the sudden swinging around of the ship, the genius scrambles to one of the view ports for a better look.

Just across from him, holding up a heavily scarred hand to display his middle finger, is Haze. His features seem even uglier twisted with anger, and Tony has just a moment to contemplate regret for his actions before they're blasted and the impact sends him sprawling on the floor near his blue companion.

Sheepishly, he drops his head to the floor to look up at her. "I thought you guys were friends."

"What did you do?" Nebula snaps, glaring down at him before looking ahead again.

"Uh..." Tony looks from her to the view port and watches the criminal veer in front of them to cut them off. "Nothing?"

"Nothing!" She practically yelps, fist connecting with a button as she nosedives to avoid a collision and shoots off rockets. "What did you _take,_ you meatsack?"

"Nothing!" Tony lies again, but when he cringes he knows she's caught him.

One metal finger comes to the front of his face, pointing and nearly touching his nose. "If we do not die here, I am killing you."

"Yeah," he sighs as he blinks at her. "That's fair."

"Sit." She jabs a finger at one of the seats to her right. "Press the blue button."

While Nebula works to evade their attacker and not have their ship blown to smithereens, Tony hauls himself to his feet and then into one of the chairs, eying the control console in front of him as he straps himself in. The Benatar continues to twist through the void of space and fire off shots, ducking around the smaller and faster ship as they get further off course. The whole thing is a little surreal, like a Star Trek movie. And they would both be wearing red, probably.

Tony presses the blue button cautiously, not entirely convinced it won't eject him and his seat into space, and is excited when a number of colorful rockets head straight toward their assailant. They connect with a disorienting flash of color and he briefly thinks that's the end of the conflict, but the weapons dealer flies his ship straight out of the quickly dispersing cloud and toward them. Seemingly giving up on firing proper weapons, Haze rams his ship right into the side of their own. The impact sends the Benatar spiraling to the side, even as Nebula tries to correct it with a practiced swerve. A well placed shot to the underside is enough to take out the second fuel tank, another connects with their already injured wing and has them careening to the left.

All Tony can make out for a while is the dark stretch of space, broken up by various sizes of rocks as they bounce off of the windows and sides of their ship. Nebula is cursing under her breath as she tries to steer them away from the potential danger, only for a cluster of rock and metal to collide into the front facing port, cracking the reinforced glass and sending them into another flying object. Tony begins to feel like they're in a pinball machine, getting knocked off of space rocks and the vessels of vindictive mutates.

As the Benatar levels out, it’s easier to make out what’s happening. Out of the left side he can see a planet comprised of blue and purple hues, constantly and quickly shifting. And it's getting closer. Or, more accurately, _they're_ getting closer. And so are the dislodged pieces of the Benatar and their not-so-pleasant-early-2000's-throwback.

He can just make out Haze’s form behind the tinted glass, expression twisted with anger and frustration. The small black ship veers to the side, clearly making an attempt at moving in their direction. Tony is bracing himself for another hit when the backend of the smaller vessel kicks and the whole thing spins. When he tries again the thrusters seem to sputter and the dark ship is yanked backward again, missing a large group of rocks by a thread.

"We're in orbit of Aakon." Nebula grits out. "The debris could cause us to crash."

"Our new age Myspace friend, too." Tony responds, tipping his chin to one of the view ports where the small black ship can clearly be seen trying to pull out only to be smacked in the side by an asteroid. Nebula gives him a disdainful look. "We have more power than that?"

"Yes." The blue skinned woman hesitates, looking at something on her display. "The main engine is at half capacity, both main fuel tanks are damaged. We don't have the parts or time to repair them. We can't jump like this. If we divert power to the front-facing thrusters we can push ourselves backwards and out."

"Okay..." Tony draws out the 'o' and raises his brows. "So do it."

She grimaces. "We'll use all of the reserves. If it throws out the main engine we won't make it far."

"Do we have any other options?"

Aside from the foreboding _thwump!_ of various sized hunks of rock against the outside of the Benatar, it's silent as she considers their options. And then, finally: "No."

"Then we do it."

Fifteen minutes later, the two stranded beings have managed to divert all of their available resources to the front thrusters. They lost Haze somewhere in the mess of debris and rocks a while ago, Tony is willing to bet he compromised power and durability for speed and stealth and he'll be stuck for longer than they are. Even the Benatar, heavier and equipped with more brawn, struggles to dislodge itself from the rocks. Nebula is ranting about how the gravitational pull of the planet - he's sure she called it Aakon - is strong enough that it would probably flatten him if he planted his feet on the ground. It's fascinating, but not something he has the time to really dive into right this moment. Another thing to pin to the board and revisit once he's settled down on his own planet with a nice glass of scotch.

The orange and blue craft stutters and slips once, twice before breaking away from the cluster of rocks and pulling away. The lights flicker and Nebula hastily hits a few buttons until the lights dull down and they're just drifting a safe distance from the purple and blue planet. Relief makes Tony's shoulders sag and Nebula leans forward to bring the cool metal of her hand to her face.

"That was _rocky_ for a minute there, huh?" Tony asks, expecting her to scoff or round on him with threats of death in the vacuum of space or dumping him on some currently undecided planet.

What he doesn't expect, and it honest to God shocks him so much he thinks for a moment he's going to crawl out of his skin, is for her to laugh. Her shoulders are shaking roughly and the sound is reminiscent of glass breaking, surprisingly high pitched and sharp. It's the first time she's laughed, aside from the time she said  _ha_ as monotonously as possible at his expense, and it's obviously real in how unpracticed it is.

Tony's shock and awe quickly gives way to worry when her shoulders hunch further and her free hand grips the control so hard he's sure he hears it cracking along with her voice. She releases it soon after, raising her hand to indicate for him to wait while she turns away from him and continues to choke and gargle out broken laughs. It goes on long enough that it becomes unsettling, and the man behind Iron Man begins to wonder if she's hysterical. He tries to distract himself or think of something to say to diffuse her abrupt laughing spell, but every time he starts she raises her hand at him until he gives up entirely.

Instead he takes a moment to evaluate the situation, and Nebula. She discarded her clothes weeks ago, opting instead for clothes that he can only assume once belonged to her newly deceased sister. Ganasha? Jampora? Gamira? Bagira? He can't remember. The tank top and loose pants are too casual on her, but they provide him a better look at the cyborg and what holds her together. (And he would be lying, to say he isn't interested.)

He can see where the metal sinks into her skull, and what looks like wires taking root under her skin. The beginnings of where the metal of her arms actually continues to extend all the way through to her shoulder blade, and maybe even further. He had assumed it was more akin to what Barnes’ is equipped with, but what she’s packing is clearly superior. Her _arm_  is full of disconnected spots that he knows hold a collection of probably super lethal weapons, and considering what he’s seen it is probably safe to assume all of the technology surpasses Earth’s. The urge to pester her with more questions (and offers to fix the weird twitch of her pinky finger that has been bugging him for months) is undeniable. Incredibly, Tony keeps himself the perfect example of self control and keeps his mouth shut.

But more than that, Tony finds himself focusing on the little things. The tight set of her shoulders, the way the metal bits of her twitch and pinch every time her chest spasms with a laugh or her shoulders hunch too far. It looks a painful, biting where some of the metal is implanted through skin and bone and wires seem to create tight lines underneath the blue. In another situation, where maybe his companion hasn’t shown to be prone to violence and under understandable emotion distress, he would go for a closer look. As things are, he tries to wait it out 

"Your attempt at humor was _stupid_ and _awful_ and I despise it." Nebula finally says, catching her breath and breaking his concentration as she stands. "We are now stranded - no fuel, no reserves, limited supplies and oxygen - and you are delusional enough to think this is funny."

Frowning, Tony puts his hands on his knees and watches her prowl back and forth like a predator, tall and lean and full of caged animosity. So instead of focusing on the obvious negatives, he goes for the positives. "We're not dead."

"We're not _dead._ " The cyborg spits back, quite literally when she turns to face him. Tony smears the bodily fluid from his cheek with only partially concealed disgust. "You are going to starve, if the oxygen lasts long enough. I am going to suffocate, here, with nothing but your rotting carcass for company. I am going to plaster you piece by piece to the walls as a display of my sheer outrage at the fact that _I_ am going to be - "

The start of what was surely going to be a rant for the ages, complete with threats and rebuttals and insults, ends early when the two of them are drenched in darkness. Across from him, Tony can hear Nebula giving a strangled cry of frustration. Sparks light up near her, the product of her metal hand tearing into one of the consoles before the two of them are rendered nearly blind again by the darkness.

" _Power failure."_ The voice is low and calm and, Tony notes with mild surprise, speaking English. " _Oxygen conversion and preservation non-functioning. Operating on backup generators. All nonessential processes suspended, oxygen and temperature regulators lowered to thirty-percent, lighting lowered to twenty-percent, artificial gravity lowered to seventy-percent."_

There's a pause, just a second, and the lights flicker. Everything is illuminated by a dull orange, the shattered navigation display flickers with warnings, and on the main command a red light flashes ever few minutes. Otherwise, the ship is eerily still. The sound of some of the vents shifting and clicking as they shut is followed by a low click and the lights on the refrigeration unit as it shuts off.

" _Total operating capacity is at fifty-percent. Long-range distress signal activated. Immediate repairs necessary to ensure necessary living conditions are maintained."_

When nothing more comes, Tony allows himself a moment to breathe and adjust to the change in lighting and the sudden thickness of the air. All of the displays have gone dark, and the only thing lit up on the consoles is the red light. He assumes that's part of the distress signal and can't help but wonder how long it will last before it becomes an unnecessary drain on the battery. Hopefully it's a while. The Guardians - as they call themselves, though he's grown partial Star Command and Space Cadets - must have anticipated a worst case scenario where they were stranded somewhere, right?

Tony tries to assure himself that they can't be that stupid. From what Nebula has told him, they've handled some sticky situations and faced some formidable opponents. Of course, her stories are a lot like the sandwiches Rhodey grew fond of in his uniformed days. Cheap, thin sliced bread with an equally dainty layer of spam and/or potted meat. _Probably more for the texture than taste_ , he thinks, _because it tastes worse than the meat-free meatloaf Pepper tested for Thanksgiving and I at least stomached a plate of that for her_. And that thought takes him somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere past the reinforced metal and three-layered glass viewports, and the furiously muttering and pacing phonomaniac currently stomping on and kicking around thick shards of what looks like glass but definitely isn't. Tony knows, because did a thorough examination of it during his exploration of the Benatar. It's too flexible to be glass which makes him wonder about the ease with which Nebula snapped a chunk off) touch sensitive and capable of projecting interactive displays, sensing temperature and performing low-level visual and physical analysis.

He makes a mental note to scoop up some of the shards scattered around the floor, before his thoughts are once again redirected.

Rhodey, animatedly detailing the proper bread-to-questionable-protein ratio and whether or not mustard enhances the taste. (Having tried that as well, Tony can confirm that it does not.) Pepper, furiously trying to explain why board shorts are not appropriate attire for a board meeting even if they are silk. Explaining to Pete why there's kill mode on his suit, and why he shouldn't be trying to disable it. Assisting Vision (and Wanda, before her departure) in taste testing new foods he's learning to prepare. Debating with Thor over how realistic survival shows really are. Reviewing maps and intel and dinner plans with Steve, while Natasha and Clint shut down all of his suggestions. Attending events with Happy and hiding behind plants when he was overwhelmed by the crowds and noise levels.

While Tony's mind falls back down to Earth, and home, and all the stupid simple things he's beginning to wonder about never seeing again, Nebula continues to utilize her colorful vocabulary. She makes a path to all of the meticulously organized storage bins, monologuing to herself all the while. After removing a few select items she moves to the next bin to dig through that one as well. This process continues until she's gone through all of them. In her metal arm is an impressively well balanced stack of machinery and weapons among other devices.

"Well?" Nebula snaps, facing him fully again and forcing him back to reality. He has to blink away the disorientation. "Remove yourself from that seat."

Cautious and slow, mostly to ensure she doesn't decide to end his life prematurely, Tony does as instructed and pops his joints. "Do you think -"

"No. Shut up. Stop making use of that gash in your face, immediately." Shaking off a cringe at the ungodly noise his limbs just made, Nebula uses her free hand to transfer a few items from her pile to his hands. "If you drop that and your sustain another injury I am not assisting you. Your easily impacted body is your own concern."

Without waiting for a response Nebula turns to the hallway and sets a brisk pace. Her footsteps seem louder in the newly introduced dull silence, but maybe she's stomping more than usual. _That's probable,_ Tony thinks. _Being stranded in space could make anyone a little more irritable than usual_. So he just follows her, through doorways and further down that he's been allowed to adventure before. He could never convince her to give him to codes to these doors, past the areas for general usage. The further they go, the more his curiosity spikes. There are control panels on the wall, sloppily labeled and paired with notes in different handwriting.

The neater ones are short, simple, informative. _Heating and cooling - temperature must remain stable in lower levels. Oxygen convertor - do not disable. Communications routers - do not remove from long rang._ There are some that look like chicken scratch, tilted and sloppy and filled with scratch marks. _If you turn the heat down my balls will freeze to my seat. Gravity levels - stop changing it while I'm sleeping ROCKET. You're NOT funny._ Some are quick, abbreviated, and look a lot like a toddler who is still learning. _dont care abt stupid snd syst. y do we need xtrior lghtng, off unless emgcy._  The rest are a mixture of thick block letters and a language he doesn't recognize, close together and pasted side by side like they were in the midst of a passive aggressive argument.

The rest are illegible, possibly due to the writer's haste or mood, or maybe just a lack of decent penmanship overall.

Other than that, the corridor is empty. The door at the end is thicker than the others on the ship and seems to have some kind of rubberized seal. Tony tries to be patient and keep his mouth shut, both to avoid maiming and to appease Nebula. He _really_ tries. But standing there while she fiddles with knobs and codes and tries to pretend he doesn't exist makes him antsy. It starts with him rocking on his heels. Then it escalated to bouncing on his feet. Which, inevitably, turns into him shuffling his feet and shifting the items deposited into his grip earlier. His internal struggle, of course, doesn't go unnoticed.

As soon at the door opens, Nebula steps inside and crouches to discard all of her items before whirling around to face him." _What?_ "

"What're we doing?" The words come out in a rush of breath so fast that they aren't even coherent, judging by the impatient look he receives in response. "What are we doing?"

" _We_." Nebula scoffs, before accusingly shoving a finger in his direction. " _You_ are the reason we are being delayed by our trip down here."

"Okay..." Tony maneuvers around her in the tight space to scurry through the doorway to reunite his meager handful of supplies with hers. When he turns to face her she's already in close quarters, large dark eyes drilling through his very _soul_ Jesus Christ he has no idea how she can go from making as much noise as Monty Hall to creeping around like Larry Page. "What am _I_ doing down here?"

Giving him just enough space to breathe, the taller alien brings herself down to his height. For someone lacking in a few distinct features, her face is very expressive. For example: right now, Tony can tell that she wants to grab him by his skull and squeeze until he pops like a balloon. " _You_ got us into this. _You_ are going to be part of fixing it."

"I can definitely see how I might be _partially_ at fault here," Tony admits, refusing to be the one to break away first. "But consider this, Doctor Manhattan." He points to himself. "I don't know if you forgot a key point here, but I'm from Earth. Little behind technologically, I guess, but we're trying. That -" this time he points to the large and very alien layers of machine to their right. "- is sure as shit not. And okay, not to toot my own horn or anything, I might be a certified genius, but it'd be pretty damn counterproductive if I blew us up."

Nebula pauses, considering him and giving a brief once over before taking a step back. "I am not terran and have a much higher capacity for intelligence and wider base of knowledge, _certified Earth genius_." She spits the last of it, cutting her eyes at him spitefully. "With my invaluable array of knowledge and guidance, you will assist me in fixing this."

Tony considers her for a moment, tone determined and posture stiff as she tears something from her arm and adds it to their pile of technology. And then he sets his sights on the impressive mass of machinery and technology on their other side. Some of it is recognizable, variations of things he's seen or used or made himself. Some of it is entirely foreign, pulsing and occasionally shifting and full of things he is kind of excited to learn about. The gears are already turning in his head as he gets a closer look and paces the length of it. Nebula allows him to do as he pleases, simply watching him and waiting.

Upon closer inspection, Tony is surprised to find that these are two _different_ machines. One seems to be a power supply, and one he can only assume has something to do with the engines. Together they almost fill the room, with only a small gap to get between them and barely enough room to fit on the opposite end from where they entered. Certainly too cramped for Nebula to squeeze through. He figures this is the main reason she's including him in this bonding activity. His proclivity towards machinery and technology in general probably helps, but she would have to primarily be basing that on his tinkering in their time together. Discounting peculiar cosmic entities, he's pretty sure he's not _quite_ influential enough to be in Murderous Maniac Magazine.

_This is the endgame._

Out of nowhere, the words fly through his mind. It's not the first time, of course. Even before Strange's ominous final words and eventual unfortunate departure, the phrase was slung around. _It's a really stupid fucking endgame_ , Tony decides, _but it could be worse_. This is kind of his thing, even if he's going to have to unlearn some things and get reacquainted with some of these parts from a different standpoint.

"My dad always said," Tony starts in bad country accent. "Life is like a shipment of warheads. You never know which one is reactive and going to level the house." When he faces his companion and finds her hovering between dangerously annoyed and laughably confused, he nods. "In other words: what do we _not_ touch?"

"You do not touch anything." Nebula sighs. "Not until I am assured you will not blow us into unidentifiable chunks."

"Alright, Gadget, I get it." Tony bounces on the balls of his feet and finds himself incapable of swallowing down his grin. "So where do we _start_?"

_**Exitar  
** 2018_

They're ready. At least, as ready as they're going to get. Loki is aware enough to accept that not everyone is going to be totally prepared for their trip. He can accept that not everyone is wholeheartedly invested in, you know, the potential fate of their _whole civilization_ or the universe in general. It's fine. They've made repairs to their getaway vehicle, loaded up with a sufficient amount of supplies through bartering and flattery, managed to get everyone reading the same book if not on the same page. The ship will make it three jumps before it doesn't hold up anymore, and from there it's only a matter of months separating them from Earth.

Not that Loki is particularly excited to be going back there, anyway. If it weren't for the question of _who_ is left down there, he would probably go to some lengths to delay their trip. His face isn't exactly going to be a welcome one. No matter what side he's one now, it's no secret that he might have tried to take over their planet. And he might have played a part in bring Thanos to power. And even if there was the influence of the stone over his head and the undeniable allure of control and power, well... It's not really a good look, from their side.

As much as the situation as a whole doesn't bother him, much, it's obviously going to cause a rift when they arrive. The fact of the matter is the Avengers - or whatever it is they're going to call themselves now - are going to see him as hostile and he's not exactly interested in being handled like a rag doll again. It was unpleasant enough the first time, thank you very much. The confrontation is inevitable and sure to be unnecessarily annoying as well as exhausting.

"Do you think Korg is going to hold up through the jump?" Brunnhilde is giving him a rather smarmy grin from the pilot's seat. "I've never seen a Kronan go through it before."

Loki leans back in his seat the inspect the man in question. He's engaged in a game of cards, peeking at an Asgardian's hand as they lean to get a better look at the pot. He doesn't recognize the game, but it's pretty obvious that his kin haven't quite gotten the hang of it. Korg keeps shaking his head at them and whispering very loudly about some rule or another. Eventually, the dark haired man relaxes in his seat and gives the former Valkyrie an indifferent shrug.

"Kronans are durable." He points out eventually. "There's a reason they've been around so long. Of course..." Trailing off and lifting his drinks to his lips to hide a smile, he hums. "I do expect he'll be short a few more pebbles than he already is."

Brunnhilde snorts and goes back to checking... whatever it is she's checking. Loki isn't concerned enough to ask, she knows what she's doing. Another short interaction to add to the list. He's sure he must be growing on her by now, whether she likes it and wants to admit it or not. Their sloppy start might have set him back but this extended stay in space is sure to help him earn some points and fix their footing. From their, it's just a matter of placating smiles and fancy words and he'll be on track with the rest of the lot. Everything is falling into place.

Really, this couldn't have gone better if he had planned it.

Create a diversion to save a decent number of innocent people and one physical powerhouse or two, get everyone to safety, commandeer a ship, give a meaningful speech, start gaining the trust of the survivors. It's like someone _wrote_ this specifically for him. A redemption arc fit for a play. Every theatrical bone in Loki's body (which is, probably, every bone) is alive with purpose. It's a shame his parents will only be able to set their sights on him from the grave, but he supposes every story has to have its fair share of tragedy to really hit home.

"Hold on to your stomachs, lightweights." Off to his side, Brunnhilde has a wide grin set on her features and the light of excitement in her eyes. When she aims that look at him, Loki realizes with mild horror that she is most certainly going to enjoy this. "This is going to be the ride of your lives."

A low _'whirr!'_ paired with a _'ch-ck!'_ signal everything finally firing up. Without warning, the woman with bistre eyes has them hurtling through the sky. Her excitement at being behind the metaphorical wheel is obvious. Her teeth are flashing through her chin and her cheeks are dusted with color when she deftly maneuvers them through a thin slit in the rocks. They're out of orbit before anyone can even think twice. It's impossible to tell how fast they're going out here, everything seems glued into place. But judging by the hasty way Brunnhilde is flipping switches, it's probably pretty fast.

The wild and exuberant look on her face is beginning to make Loki seriously question his decision to allow her to steer them all through space. She looks like she would send them through a minefield for nothing more than the thrill of it. Of course, the only other viable option was himself. There's too much risk in letting anyone else have control over their over method of moving through the galaxies. And while he'd like to boast about being superior in everything he's tried his hand at - because he typically is, being exceptional is part of being a God - there's no doubt that one of them has more experience here. This one single time he had agreed without argument. Here's to hoping that wasn't one of his few bad decisions.

Blowing out a breath through her nose, the current focus of his thoughts reaches above her head and removes the cover for a green switch. This won't be the first time he's gone through a jump or two, but the look on Brunnhilde's face is still a little offputting. She pushes her curly ponytail over her shoulder and the only warning she gives him before flipping the switch is a raise of her brows.

Everything around him bounces and swishes and bends in ways that aren't realistic. Loki's pretty sure his tongue has grown and he's choking on it, his nostrils burn and his limbs fluctuate in length. When he manages to give a glance to Brunnhilde, her eyes bulge and then retreat into her head and her teeth and mouth seem to grow and shrink as her hair finds a life of its own and dances around her. Distantly, his gaze wavers on the count and he isn't surprised to find they're only at the end of the first jump.

The second has his brain scrambled, has him standing on a battlefield centuries ago with familiar comrades and roars of victory. Every breath is rough and his heart makes a desperate attempt to escape his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade. The air is hot enough that his throat burns and his torso is warm, sweat is rolling down his neck from exertion. The humidity has everyone's hair frizzy, clothes sticky.

A heavy clap on his shoulder. A flash of dark hair. _We did well today, my friends._ Heavy red curls paired with the song of an artfully forged weapon as it takes its last swings through the air before a well earned rest. _I would choose no others to fight alongside._ Red fabric and a belly deep laugh. _Good game, brother. But I've beaten you by seven this light._ Long strides, a green cape skirting matching boots. _Are we in agreement that we take the front somewhere with a more bearable climate next time?_

Whatever takes hold of him releases him when they start the third jump. Loki tells himself he isn't going to vomit. He's going to save face, even with the smell of burning hair and the feel of cold sludge coating his throat and sloshing around in his stomach. He's endured worse. This is nothing.

Just as quickly as it startled, the rattling throughout the ship stops. And so does the nausea. Relief takes its place for a beat, maybe two, and then Loki blinks and finds himself curved over the seat heaving. Somewhere behind him, a cracking laugh starts up. He tries to give Brunnhilde a dirty gesture for her input, and she gives him a hard clap on the back which only makes him gag again.

**_The Andromeda Galaxy  
_ ** _2018_

Oh yeah, she _definitely_ enjoyed that.

Watching Loki, God of Mischief, King of Thieves, Master Ballbreaker, bend over dispel not only the contents of his stomach but also most of his dignity is worth the wobbliness of her limbs and the faint throb at her temples. It's probably the best part of their journey so far. It's probably going to be her main talking point when they manage to reconnect with Thor and Bruce. Brunnhilde has no doubt they'll enjoy the story as much as she'll enjoy retelling it a thousand times over.

It was worth her vision splitting during the first jump, and her glimpses at old faces during the second, and the out of body experience she got to enjoy during the third. She's willing to bet there won't be many chances at catching him like this in her future. For as much of an ass as he's made himself out to be, he's got a phenomenal track record in smiling pretty and saving some amount of his respect and title.

"Everyone in one piece?" She calls out when her chortling dies down, standing to get a view of the rest of their companions. There are a few messes, as to be expected, but aside form a few grumbled complaints there are no disruptions. "Korg?"

Blinking up at her, the Kronan aims a thumbs up her way. "All good." Right on cue, a couple pieces dislodge from his shoulder to join a growing pile on the floor. He looks down at the rocks and them up to her again, not breaking his stride. And then, louder to reassure everyone: "No worries, everyone! That's normal!"

Everyone seems to take this moment to collect themselves. A few of them, already designated to clean up duty, are moving around with water and reusable wipes. Both for cleaning the floor and for those of them that couldn't contain themselves. Brunnhilde is pretty pleased to see it's better than expected. There are usually a lot more hurlers on their first time, and with some of the Sakaaran rebels it was hard to know how much their bodies can withstand. The Asgardians she knows from experience can handle plenty more than three jumps. Aside from a few non-critical side effects, they'll be fine.

With some of the others, it's hard to say. Just because they aren't currently showing any bad signs, there's no way of knowing their heads weren't a little scrambled. The body can handle a lot, and can adapt the more you expose yourself to the stressors, but three jumps back to back on their first time could always be problematic.

Settled near one corner Biff has curled himself into a large ball, shifting his shoulders as if to get something off. Tasba is fairing surprisingly well. She's making rounds to dispose of the bodily waste and make sure none of the slumped bodies are unconscious. Miek is chittering loudly at anyone who approaches, swiftly discouraging anyone from directing their attention towards him. There are one or two Asgardians holding their stomachs or limbs, as well.

"Are you done having your fun yet?" Green eyes meet brown, one set full of distaste and the other mirth.

"Oh no, not nearly." Brunnhilde gifts him with her most predatory look as he rights himself and brushes her off. "I'd say we're just getting started."

"What a _joy._ " He drawls, rubbing at his eyes. Whatever he experienced, she's pleased to see it made an impact. "I can already see just how this trip will bring us together."

Barking out a laugh, the fit woman returns to her seat. "That's the spirit, _ormr._ You made your bed..."

She trails off, confident that he knows the saying and where she's going with it. Loki doesn't give her a sharp or witty comeback, though. When she looks over he's looking out of the port, a thousand miles away. She won't ask, because she _doesn't_ care. And he won't tell, she's sure. If it were something he felt benefited him to share, he would have started on it already. Something in his expression shifts, sharp and calculating, and Brunnhilde is pretty sure she doesn't really want to know what goes on inside his head anyway. Unfortunately for her, Loki decides now is the time to start sharing.

"There are going to be sacrifices." That cool gaze is back on her. "This will likely be a one-way trip."

Brunnhilde gives him a dirty look. "Sacrifices."

" _Necessary_ sacrifices." He says, with so little care that she wonders if he meant to say it at all. "Please, don't tell me you were too naive to consider that."

There's no point in responding, or feeding into his mental deliberation over who they should be willing to give up, so Brunnhilde doesn't. She's tries to tune out his quiet ramblings, to put away the thought of the inevitable until they're closer to when those decisions will need to be made. But part of her aches for Sakaar and her reputation there, the almost limitless supply of booze and absence of responsibility. Dying for what could be a lost cause when she could have been sailing smoothly along in her tucked away corner of the universe. In the end, Brunnhilde reasons with herself that she's put her life in danger for less.

"Hell," Brunnhilde interrupts, more for herself than him. "It's not like we have anything better to do, now."

Loki hums his agreement, and his line of sight drifts back to their gaggle of survivors. She swears she sees a genuinely amused smile trying to twist its way onto his features, but he's turning his head back to the port before she can really capture the image. "Even I can't argue that.


End file.
